Payment in Gold
by wryter501
Summary: In order to choose between her suitors, Arthur and Lancelot, Princess Guinevere sets them a quest-challenge. Meanwhile, Merlin struggles to survive as the only male in Camelot for a century whose magic is strong enough to earn him citizenship. If Arthur redeems Merlin's debts, will Merlin accompany him on his quest to repay him with 'gold' of another sort? (no slash!)
1. Nimueh's Camelot

**Payment in Gold**

 **Chapter 1: Nimeuh's Camelot**

The Watch-Building, a wing of the Citizen's Center in Camelot, the capital of the kingdom. Imposing edifice of solid sandstone, barracks and prison and the end of Merlin's life as he'd known it. Which he'd been aware of all his life, ever since he was old enough to understand the difference between boy and girl.

Then again, the end of Merlin's life had been one month ago, when Hunith smiled – dark-eyed and hollow-cheeked - through the final fever and closed her eyes for the last time. _I'm so proud of you. Promise me_ …

Merlin mounted the stairs and entered the polished lobby of the Citizen's Center, where a stocky mid-level officer with a long gray-auburn braid pointed him to a door marked Registration.

"You're a day early, you know," the officer behind the desk snapped, her iron-gray hair in a tight bun at the collar of her steel-blue uniform jacket. Sharp eyes looked him over. "We won't feed you til tomorrow, either."

"No, ma'am," he said respectfully, his throat dry. "I've not come to register. I've come to – choose my opponent. For the citizenship-trial."

The whole office – two junior officers copying and filing, a loose-robed citizen filing paperwork, a skinny middle-aged slave cleaning the back windows – froze into silence. Three women, four including the desk-officer, and one man.

The ranking officer rose, head and shoulders shorter than him. Eyes now razor-dangerous. She snapped, "You think your magic is strong enough to make you a _citizen_?"

Respectful, always respectful to a female, citizen or officer. "I have the right to find that out, ma'am," he reminded her carefully. The only right that remained to him, actually.

"No male has tried for citizenship in – twenty years at least," she said. "The last time a sorcerer was granted full rights was – a century, maybe?"

"Public suicide," one of the junior officers suggested sarcastically, and the officer's demeanor changed.

"Yes, I suppose so," she sneered, as Merlin flushed.

His long-term options were grim – military, or slavery. His short-term options were worse, maybe – take it on the run, until capture and execution. Or suicide, in a wide range of ways. Starvation, of course, wasting away on a steady diet of conjured food. Or he could conjure a rope or a knife or poison, though he hadn't the coin to pay another slave to do it for him. A few, he'd heard rumors as he'd grown up, had chosen to do it publically, at these trials, their meager magic not enough to save their lives.

"Well, if you're sure," she concluded, coming out from behind the desk. "Follow me."

Out of the office, down a narrow corridor, down an even narrower flight of stairs. Then another. Then another, the light and fresh air both diminished, the farther they descended.

"You're late, you know," she threw over her shoulder. He huffed to himself – first early, now late. "The girls on the docket for tomorrow have already chosen."

She waved a hand in explanation down a long noisy smelly corridor opening off the stairway. He glimpsed a twin line of cells, iron bars separating prisoners' bodies, but not the noise or the stench. All male, of course. Females were fined or – in extreme cases – simply executed. Male criminals were kept for the coming-of-age trials.

The stairway ended before she led him through one of the arched doorways. Another officer, with heavy jowls and close-cropped hair - the only signs of her gender being certain areas where her uniform fit differently than a man's would - rose to salute.

"You got a new one for me, captain?" the warden rasped.

"Nope. This one thinks he's got a shot at citizenship." Both women cackled.

And only the thought of Gaius waiting in their tiny apartment kept Merlin from turning himself in, right there and then.

"So what've you got left, Warden?" the captain asked.

The other woman plumped half her square-shaped rump on the battered desk and tilted a sheet of paper toward the soot-darkened chimney of a desk-lamp, checking inventory. "Last two cells on the right," she said. "C'mon, kid, I'll show you."

Grabbing a torch from a wall-sconce, she led Merlin down the row of cells. Men of every age and physical type, from sullenly silent to defiantly loud, _watched_ him, and he did his best to ignore them all.

 _You're so special_ , his mother's voice whispered into his mind, like a breath of clean air, conveying not only love, but respect and dignity. _You're so different. You can change the world, my little son. Someday. Only believe._ They wouldn't have told him that if it wasn't true. Hunith would not have gone into debt to buy Gaius – an educated slave with a little magic, rare and even at his age, expensive – as a tutor for her son, if she didn't believe it, herself.

"Here we are," the warden told him, as they reached the end. "Pick of the litter."

He didn't want to look at the prisoners. If he wanted to live free, he had to kill to prove his magic worthy of citizenship. And if it wasn't, his opponent would kill _him_ – and earn a pardon.

"Hey, Warden!" someone called. "Fresh meat?"

"What's he done?"

"He's just a kid!"

"Well?" the warden said, not responding to the inmates.

He darted a glance into the dim recesses. "The big one," he heard himself say. The one who looked like he could snap Merlin in half – then at least it would be quick - right next to the one who looked mean enough to enjoy the show.

"All right." The warden didn't move, still eyeing him expectantly. Then she reached across and slapped his chest. "Yep – you're a boy, kid. That means you pick two opponents."

Merlin stared at her. In the twenty years since another boy had done this, chosen to test his magic in a bid for the rights of citizenship, details had become hazy. Maybe Hunith hadn't known – _two_! – but surely Gaius did. Gaius, who'd bowed his head as a boy himself decades ago for the permanent slave's mark rather than test his own magic in the stadium. Maybe Gaius had thought the idea of two opponents would put Merlin – or Hunith – right off the whole idea.

"Um," he said. "The one right next, then." The big one _and_ the mean one. Ye gods, he was doomed. Public suicide, indeed.

"Alrighty," she said, starting back down the row to the waiting captain. "Bright an' early, tomorrow, mind," she said. "Or you'll be on our fugitive-list, and the longest hold-out we've had is – what?"

"Three days," the captain answered in a bored way. "Well, three and a half, before he bled out."

Merlin shivered, and stumbled, and the sound of their laughter – the prisoners' laughter – followed him all the way home.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"I am bored out of my mind," Gwaine announced, pacing the grimy stone floor of their cell.

Percival leaned against the back wall, his arms crossed over his chest to hide the fists his hands made, feigning a patience he no longer felt. "Should've thought of that before you killed that jackass in the mess hall," he said mildly.

Gwaine flipped his hair away from his face. It was too long, Percival had warned him, three weeks ago when they'd been tossed – figuratively, of course, no one _tossed_ Percival – in the lowest level of the city's prison. _Lice_ , he'd warned Gwaine. At least.

 _I won't live long enough for that_ , Gwaine scoffed, beginning to pace for the first time. _That, or I'll kill the lousy bugger who gets close to me – get it? Louse-y bugger?_

 _Not funny, Gwaine._ Well, maybe a little.

"Well." Gwaine paused at the wall. " _You_ shouldn't have killed his mate. I could've taken them both."

Percival snorted. "His mate was ready to sever your spine with a fork," he said.

Gwaine turned and his devilish grin showed white through the prison murk. "I've never been in a food fight that turned lethal," he remarked contemplatively, and probably didn't see Percival roll his eyes.

In the far corner of the cell block, they weren't the first to know of the new arrival, but both of them had an instinctive awareness of changes to their surroundings – as any veteran of the border wars did – quick hearing, and curiosity honed by the deadly dull of prison monotony.

The blocky warden sauntered into view, carrying a torch, followed by a skinny, scared-looking kid with patched clothes, hunched shoulders, and a thatch of black hair.

"New inmate," Percival guessed immediately.

"That one's no criminal," Gwaine disagreed, even as an inmate from the next cell over hollered, _New meat_! "He can't have the guts to –"

"Gwaine, he's _choosing_ ," Percival said suddenly, pushing himself upright. There had been only two girls who'd come this low into the bowels of the prison, searching for the slowest and weakest opponent to face at the trials – tomorrow, if they hadn't lost count of days in this hellhole.

"You're kidding," Gwaine said in disbelief. "Are you sure it isn't –" The warden interrupted his question, slapping at the youngster's chest to prove his gender.

"A sorcerer?" Percival said, stunned.

"A suicide," Gwaine predicted.

"You pick two opponents," the warden ordered the boy, her voice carrying clearly to them in the back of the cell.

And, wonder of wonders, the skinny kid gestured to them – clearly, unmistakably, the two of them. And retreated without a second glance.

Percival moved to the front of the cell to watch them go, the boy's gait still holding the awkwardness of adolescence. He didn't look back, hardly raised his head, his shoulders hunched inward against the verbal abuse the prisoners rained on him; he even tripped as he reached the door to the stair.

"Ha, ha!" Gwaine celebrated exultantly at the back of the cell. "Can you believe it?" He leaped forward to punch Percival's shoulder as hard as he could – without much effect. "You are me are gonna taste sweet, fresh air tomorrow! Then, back to the corps like nothing happened! We'll be damn _heroes_!"

"Gwaine," Percival said seriously. "First, we have to kill a _kid_."

His roguish friend sobered. Slightly. "His choice." Gwaine shrugged.

"He's not going to stand a chance," Percival observed, and felt himself not at all diminished to admit to a pang of sympathy for the doomed boy.

"We'll make it quick," Gwaine promised him. "He won't suffer. Okay?"

Percival sighed. "Okay."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gaius was dying.

Both of them knew it, accepted it, and avoided referring to the subject. The old slave had been dying slowly for a month now, since Merlin's mother had breathed her last. Gaius was only hanging on, Merlin thought but did not say, to see Hunith's son to the day of his coming-of-age. As much from affectionate and grateful loyalty to his mistress, as from deep and genuine concern for her son.

Tomorrow. If he kept the dual promise he'd made – long ago, and renewed many times, to both his mother and her old slave – he would find himself standing in the civic stadium, fighting for his life.

His magic. _His_ freedom.

The first male citizen of Camelot in a century, or dead.

And he knew from his visit to the prison, that afternoon, it wouldn't be an easy victory. Some perverse instinct had sparked, as he stood in the narrow aisle between filthy cells – a visceral reminder of what was in store for him, maybe - had _chosen_ , that it wouldn't be easy. But if he reneged… he'd be branded a slave for life, and sold to the highest bidder, along with every other boy who reached manhood this year.

"Dinner, Gaius," he said, crouching by the old man's pallet, balancing the thin board that served as a dinner-tray on his knee.

His mentor, his tutor, his friend, turned but slowly on the pallet he'd left only briefly for a fortnight, now. Gaius' body was crooked and brittle and heavy, his eyes sunken, but brightened on seeing him.

"Merlin," he rasped. "You're home."

"Yes." He didn't bother mentioning he'd been home for an hour now, letting the slave sleep while he prepared their evening meal. Which Gaius hadn't been able to do since Hunith's passing, and which neither of them had remarked on either. Merlin had taken over every one of the slave's tasks, gradually and quietly.

After all, if Merlin did not stand in the stadium, if he was to spend his life as a slave, better get used to the tasks of serving, now.

"Can you sit up a little?" he asked, reaching to provide the old man a stable handhold. "It's only bread and broth – but we shouldn't spill." Precious it was, and the last. Merlin had sold the last things worth even a copper coin from their tiny apartment in the city streets only this afternoon. And he'd spent the last copper – and a good portion of his modest pride – begging even a stale loaf from the baker.

Which was why he was questioning his long-standing promise. Among other reasons he'd discovered that morning – one big and one mean, in that prison cell - freedom and magic were worth little if you starved, and there was nothing left. Survival meant little, if it was only for a day.

"I might do – for a chicken." At the old man's words, Merlin looked quizzically at his friend, whose rheumy eyes were fixed on the dusty rafters. "A roast chicken, with sage and black pepper and a touch of garlic. Leeks. Skin crackling brown…" Gaius coughed weakly. "New potatoes with thin golden skin melting off…"

Merlin's mouth watered, and his stomach growled with sudden temptation.

Starvation could be delicious, after all.

"And corn, fresh from the shuck and dripping salted butter."

"You haven't eaten cob-corn in years, old man," Merlin reminded his friend lightly, trying to swallow tears and hunger, both.

"And berries for dessert," Gaius whispered, now looking at him. "Swimming in cream. Raspberries, blackberries, dwarf strawberries. Blueberries."

"Please stop," Merlin said, but he smiled.

Gaius reached a trembling hand to pat the side of Merlin's leg, where his cuffs were ragged and his ankles bare above his cheap leather shoes. "You keep the broth and the bread," the old man told him. "And conjure me a feast."

Merlin's breath caught, tangled around his heart's painful attempt to keep beating. "Gaius…"

"Don't argue with me, there's a good lad. We know what we know, don't we, and there's no changing it." Gaius sighed, a whimsical smile deepening the wrinkles. "Mine is over, and yours just beginning – let's celebrate with a feast. I want to go out in style."

Merlin focused on setting down the tray of the meager meal that was now his alone – no amount of coaxing would convince the stubborn old slave, he was sure. Just waste what time they had left. It made him feel unbearably lonely.

"Can you sit up, then," he said, around the lump in his throat.

And focused his magic, conjuring first the furniture. A grand table, sturdy and beautifully carved and draped with a white silk that glittered - though only a foot from the floor, so they could enjoy the sight, since he'd be sitting on the floor next to the old man's pallet for their meal. Formed as easy as imagination under his palms and fingers as he described its shape in the air.

Then the food, crowding the table with every delicacy he could remember glimpsing through front windows of eating-houses, even passing street-vendors. Whitefish fried in olive oil and dill-weed, potatoes baked and scalloped and mashed, green beans and white beans and yellow beans swimming in butter sauce, cake and potpie and tangy tarts, seed-buns and scones and pudding. A great pink ham, thick slices curling down from the bone, a pyramid of cob-corn with a pat of butter in the shape of a sailing ship melting all over them. Even the berries and the cream. And in the middle of it all, a boar's-head complete with tusk-framed apple, just to make Gaius laugh.

He did, a little. A huff of a chuckle, while Merlin's stomach clenched with hunger – though he hadn't added the scents of the feast, because he wasn't a complete idiot – and loss.

"That's my boy," Gaius whispered contentedly. "Magic beautiful and artistic, as well as powerful."

"I wish –" Merlin's throat closed.

For all that, it was still worthless. Conjurations of edible substances could affect all the senses – but provided absolutely no nourishment whatsoever. Which Gaius knew very well.

"I know, lad. Just fill my plate."

The smell, the taste, the feeling of a full belly, was all mirage. In the morning it would be as if he'd eaten nothing but air. Even the furniture would dissipate, as always, though he no longer tried to conjure a comfortable bed for the old man who could not climb in and out of it without pain.

Merlin obeyed the request, ringing the threadbare pallet on the uneven plank-floor, weathered gray and gapping, with gleaming dishes - silver, gold, and copper like he'd seen in shop windows - while Gaius struggled up to one elbow to sample a bite of this and that. Complimenting Merlin, correcting his misconception of the taste of rosemary – which he'd never actually tasted – in the stew.

While Merlin dipped his stale bread into the wooden bowl of weak broth, which would keep him alive for one more day.

Then he could die at seventeen, instead of sixteen.

Or, well, near enough. The birthdays of girl babies were recorded to the minute with city officials, and if she so chose, a girl could postpone her citizen-trial, could wait to prove her magic and her worth to the queen and the kingdom until the very moment she'd breathed seventeen years' worth of air, though not many did because of the social stigma of the delay.

Boy babies, not so lucky. One day, they got. Tomorrow, every boy child who'd been born the same year Merlin had been, would present themselves at the Citizen's Center - a cold, hard irony of a name. There they would be branded slaves and sold, or tried for a soldier. Which was just a more violent form of slavery.

Merlin's hand strayed to the mark on his neck, below and behind his right ear. Underage, it meant. Still a boy. A harmless nuisance. Tomorrow, whether he presented himself or not, it would fade, and he'd be a fugitive with a price on his neck – an invisible but deadly mark - to be claimed by any citizen who could turn him in to the Watch.

Gaius saw the gesture. "How did it go, this morning?" he asked, slowly spearing white beans onto the tines of the golden fork.

"Fine," Merlin said, not meeting the old slave's eyes, dipping another corner of his bread-crust into the cooling broth.

"Tell me anyway?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"You're up late."

Gwen, cross-legged in her desk chair and leaning on the massive desk before her, arms hugging the dusty tome in the warm circle of candlelight, jumped guiltily at the voice.

"Yes, Mother, I'm sorry," she said automatically, trying to stretch muscles that had been too still for too long surreptitiously, squinting at the form of the approaching queen through the gloom of the bedchamber.

Nimueh waved one hand and sparks flew from her fingertips to light three other candles about the room. A casual display of the greatest power in the kingdom, and a rebuke, intentional or not. Gwen had to focus intently for several moments to light even one with her magic, even after two decades of study and practice.

"What are you reading?" the queen asked negligently. Though there was, Gwen recognized from long years of watching her mother and her sovereign, to better understand and please her, something else on her mind than her daughter's reading habits.

"History," Gwen answered, intentionally vague. History and prophecy, more accurately, an odd mix and an interest she found she didn't care to try to explain to the queen.

"Ah." Nimueh drifted around the perimeter of Gwen's chamber, giving more attention to the furnishings and clutter. "Which one?"

She winced, but answered honestly; there was nothing to be gained from lying to Nimueh, and everything to be lost. "Taliesin's."

The queen faced her, at that, but the smile that curved her mother's red lips was amused. "You're reading a _male_ writer?"

Gwen swallowed the indignant protest that sprang to her mouth. "It's interesting," she said only, shrugging one shoulder as if the appeal was passing, and academic at best. "They think so much differently than we do, about many things."

Nimueh let out a feminine grunt. "They think wrongly, about many things."

Gwen opened her mouth to argue, just because Camelot had experienced three centuries of matriarchal society, didn't mean that was the only viable option, ever. And what made them think they were proof against the same failings as the ancient kings? Hm. Heresy.

"Blythewin certainly thought so," she commented only. Their ancestor. Recorded as the most powerful sorceress in Camelot's history – and the first of its queens.

"Why not read her history, then?" Nimueh said.

Gwen could tell her mother was getting bored of the conversational topic. She didn't have much use for studying subjects other than magic.

"I have," Gwen said. And what was most interesting about that was, why and how had Taliesin's writings survived, when so much of the male-oriented culture before Blythewin had been destroyed…

"Good, then you need not waste time reading that rubbish when you should be sleeping," her mother scolded lightly, leaning against Gwen's bookshelf, her burgundy wrap clinging to lithe curves Gwen was contrarily jealous of, considering herself plump at best; she had long supposed she took after her father in more ways than one. Nimueh toyed with a sage-scented candle – flicker on, flicker off – without touching it. "The young lords will both be our guests for the citizen-trials demonstration."

Ah, so there it was. The subject which Nimueh _really_ wanted to discuss. Again.

"I remember," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral as a princess should. She leaned back in her desk chair and shifted her position, pulling the silky skirt of her banana-yellow wrap around her legs.

"And?"

It was a choice she'd been pressured to make for several months now. Arthur or Lancelot. And – like her interest in the poet/historian/prophet Taliesin - she couldn't even begin to explain how it wasn't a problem with either one of them, but with her. She didn't feel ready for this, her first sexual liaison, intended to result in eventual motherhood.

Gwen knew her duty. Knew that despite the appearances of youth Nimueh's strong magic gifted her – not a single strand of gray in that dark hair, blue eyes bright, red lips full and firm, not so much as a wrinkle or an extra pound littering her perfect figure – her mother was closer to sixty than fifty.

But. Gwen had always felt lacking by comparison. Her magic was weak, her skin dusky rather than fair, her figure round rather than willowy, short rather than imposing. Nothing to impress the intended sire of her daughter. Which was, she knew, the wrong way of looking at the whole process, but she couldn't help feeling… inadequate?

"I haven't made up my mind," she said only.

Something flashed in Nimueh's eyes. "What is there to consider?" she said, deliberately careless. "With Lancelot as sire, your daughter would be quite striking. Gorgeous, possibly. With Arthur – well, the potential for beauty is there, but the result could be unexpected."

The silence lengthened, as Gwen weighed whether she wanted to address the question of what her daughter might be like on the _inside_.

"If you're worried about their genetic history, don't be," Nimueh added. "Lancelot's mother and grandmother both had unquestionably solid magic. Arthur's mother Ygraine was my favorite cousin; she's held our western border for thirty years, and his sire was Ygraine's best general."

"Is he still alive?" Gwen said without thinking.

"Yes, I believe so." Nimueh's gaze was sharp, the candle glowing thick and hot without so much as a flicker. "Is it their differing temperaments, that has you undecided?"

Lancelot was always so respectful, behaving with courtesy and reverence for her gender and status, always deferring, never disagreeing. He would be the same in the bedroom. Considerate and obedient and… Gwen was a virgin, still, so she was only going on hearsay, but if conceiving a daughter took a great deal of time, she thought it possible the novelty and physical enjoyment might wear off into boredom? He didn't interest her, beyond his physical perfection; she couldn't see him as a lifelong mate. She would have no trouble, she expected, returning him to a command on the border, after he had sired her daughter.

She might prefer that. Not having any feelings at all complicating a continuing relationship with her daughter's sire.

Arthur, though.

He was polite also, inoffensive, but… She always felt there was more there. That he showed the female society one layer only. He was very controlled – but that made her wonder, what, exactly, he was controlling. Lancelot had no great emotion _to_ control.

Arthur was intriguing. She felt like she might quite like the taming of him, because he was one to be persuaded to accept the taming. Not forced or cajoled or ordered or seduced, but… impressed, maybe. As though he was waiting to trust someone enough to reveal his true self? And what might that be?

It was all so backwards, when she thought of him, but she felt if she earned a genuine depth of friendship and confidence with him, it would give her value as a person, as well. It would mean that there was more to her than gender and status. Would that viewpoint make her a stronger queen, or a weaker one? She didn't know.

"Lancelot is perfectly trained," the queen commented; she was impatient with Gwen's indecision. "Arthur might prove to be more of a challenge – but as princess, perhaps it might be good for you to take on such a challenge. How can you rule a kingdom if you cannot rule a man, after all."

"Like you did with my sire?" Gwen heard herself say, and bit the inside of her lips together. Her mother would be angry – _but_ , a little voice in her mind said, _what can she do about it, after all? The kingdom will be_ mine _someday, no matter what…_

"Well, you have grown up while I wasn't looking," Nimueh said, but not as if she was displeased. "Hm. I suppose it will do you good to know. Your sire was the royal blacksmith, you know that part… What you probably didn't know, was that he did not have my invitation."

Gwen stared at her mother, uncomprehending. For a male to initiate a mating was death.

Nimueh's red lips curved in a smile of remembrance, amused and cruel. "He was… maybe a bit like Arthur. He saw what he thought was his chance, and took it. And what _he_ might not have ever known, was that - I allowed it." She shrugged one shoulder, the dark red silk delicately draped there shimmering in the candlelight. Gwen clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping open – Nimueh's magic would have protected her quite comfortably from even an unexpected attack. "I thought, initiative and spirit and defiance. Might not be a bad thing for my daughter to have. Of course, it was more than a month after his execution, that I knew for sure he'd sired you."

Initiative and spirit and defiance, Gwen thought dazedly. Everything she'd always thought might displease her mother.

"But," the queen continued. "We may have a third option for you to consider."

"Who?" Gwen's mouth said, her mind still a step and a half behind.

"There's a male on the docket for the citizen-trials tomorrow."

Nope. Still behind. Gwen could only stare at Nimueh. "But – that hasn't happened for –"

"Twenty years." Nimueh nodded in satisfaction. "I remember. You were there too, incidentally, you sat on my lap in our box in the stadium. More interested in my necklace than the trials, though."

Gwen couldn't help a shiver. She'd only barely passed her citizen-trial herself, three years ago, and still hadn't the courage to ask her mother straight out if _she'd_ used magic to aid Gwen in killing the poor street-thief she'd paired with. Skinny and scrawny, eyes bulging with shock and despair, still he'd fought so desperately for his life that Gwen had worried for hers.

"I don't see how that's a third option," she managed. "There haven't been any male citizens for just over a – century."

And didn't that tease a memory from the book she'd just been reading? No time to catch it, during this conversation with her queen mother.

"Yes," Nimueh added, with lazy slowness, her brilliant blue eyes heavy-lidded.

"Who is he? Anyone special?" she asked.

"His mother was a low-level officer, stationed on the border for several years." Gwen wasn't surprised that the queen had researched the anomaly as soon as it was brought to her attention, though probably it was a task assigned to another, the results summarized for Nimueh's benefit. "No record of the sire's identity. She returned to the city for the last third of her expectancy, and petitioned for release from her enlistment when she bore a male. It was assumed that she did so out of humiliation, over the circumstances of the conception, or the fact of the get's gender. However, it seems she purchased a slave a little over a year later, an educated male with some small magical ability. She went into significant debt for a decade to pay off the expense, and lived at a near-destitute level of poverty for years after."

"Curious," Gwen agreed.

Her mother hummed. "Tomorrow will be interesting, to say the least. And if this boy survives to manhood and citizenship… perhaps it would be wise of you to consider him as a sire for your daughter."

Gwen took a deep breath, let out the sigh silently. Because of her meager ability, of course, it would be wise to infuse stronger magic into the royal line again. But Nimueh had assured her that both Arthur and Lancelot could be assumed to pass potential to their children, though neither had any magic themselves.

A male citizen. With magic to match, at least, any adult female in the nation. Though he would be quite a few years younger, and a stranger… But it did make sense that Nimueh would seek to control such a person, at least to the perception of the public, by inserting him into the heritage of the eventual successor of the throne, by keeping a child of his as tenant of the royal palace.

"I'll keep an open mind, mother," she said. Because it would be childish and naïve to refuse based on nothing more than personal sensitivities.

Nimueh gave her a smile of pleased satisfaction. "I would expect no less. Not too late, now? Good night."

"Good night," Gwen echoed. And couldn't help thinking of those for whom this would be their last night alive.

The nameless boy who tomorrow would fight and kill, for the right to live free…

 **A/N: The inspiration for this fic came largely from a book by Piers Anthony and Mercedes Lackey, "If I Pay Thee Not in Gold". (Which I would say is M-rated, and I** _ **don't**_ **recommend, unless you're okay with** _ **ménage a trois**_ **and demon/human intercourse… don't be alarmed, that will never enter my fics! Because I'm** _ **not**_ **okay with that, it just didn't enter the book in question until the end, at which point I was too hooked** _ **not**_ **to finish, and skipped those parts!)**

 **In any case, I found the idea of a matriarchal society intriguing (maybe I should add a disclaimer – I'm** _ **not**_ **a sexist?); much of that framework comes from the book, as well other elements, which I'll probably identify in subsequent chapters as we go… Also I should say, the nature of magic will be a bit different than in-series.**

 **Just fyi, I'm going to keep these 3 povs for this fic: Merlin, Percival, and Gwen. Interesting/unusual mix, huh? Well, we'll see. Updates at least once a week, maybe 12-15 chapters, though it seems I always say that…**


	2. The Citizenship-Trials

**A/N: So I decided, this instead of the sequel to "Refined by Fire", but I'll write that one next, after the conclusion of this.**

 **Chapter 2: Rites of Citizenship**

"Are you all right?"

It took Merlin a distant moment to realize the question was addressed to him. He lifted his gaze from the edge of the empty wooden bench opposite his at the end of the holding room and turned to see that one of the girls had approached him again.

With her robe closed. There had been a few, initially, who'd laughed and opened their only allowed garment deliberately, a few others who let it fall open slyly with a sideways glance to evaluate his reaction. Perhaps only as a joke or pastime, perhaps as a cruel way to unsettle him before his own turn, perhaps to gauge how they might expect the male they faced in the arena to respond.

He'd taken it dispassionately, noticing and analyzing their antics in a vague way. They might have gotten a different reaction, had it been a different day.

Merlin blinked at the wide brown eyes and soft blonde curls and registered concern and compassion there. Nerves, maybe, but under control.

"You're not – okay, are you?" she said. "I mean, not that any of us are okay – I'm so nervous I could spew. Except those of us who've passed already – without serious injury, that is –"

"Give it a rest, Laney," one of the few remaining girls called over the shoulder of her own robe from the circle of her companions. One of the girls who'd chosen to crop her hair short – sacrificing vanity for strategy. "He's a suicide."

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment – _he's a suicide_ – seeing and feeling and experiencing again, this morning. Discovering Gaius cold and – _gone_ , on his pallet. And Merlin had no time or coin to see to him properly, with dignity… the body would simply be disposed of along with the rest of the day's rubbish from the city streets. Possibly, with the rubbish from the day's doings here.

His old mentor had deserved so much better.

Merlin wondered if he'd be joining Gaius, today, among the heaps of corpses, criminals and girls too weak to earn citizenship. He thought part of him might want to; he was trying to ignore that part, without knowing if he _should_.

"Are you planning to give it a go, at least?" Laney asked, pulling one knee onto the bench between them. It caused the robe to gape a bit, but she seemed as unconcerned as Merlin, and all he glimpsed was an innocuous extra inch of leg. "You know, fighting back might actually make him kill you faster – though of course you don't have to worry about him playing with you the way we do…"

He didn't bother correcting her use of the singular _him_ , to plural _they_.

The girls without sufficient magic – or physical strength and skill, if she was satisfied to be military the rest of her life – to kill their opponent, were considered fair game, sexually. The prisoner was allowed for once in his life, to take a woman – a girl – without repercussion. That was a disadvantage, for the girl, the fear of such public and brutal rape.

However, they went out to the arena without a stitch of clothing, leaving the robe behind. Ostensibly this was to prevent a hidden weapon, to test if the girl allowed herself the moment of weakness to conjure clothing, a moment that might decide their fight – but it also acted as a distraction to their opponent. Who might be more intent on the sex than the kill, thus affording the girl a few more moments to end the contest decisively, and ultimately in her own favor.

Merlin supposed he was glad, after all, that they'd allowed him the loincloth of the male prisoners, supposing that nudity would not factor into his success or failure, the same way. Though he hadn't gotten a robe then, either, which left his skinny limbs and bony torso vulnerable to the ridicule of the girls. He forgave them, understanding the psychological need to belittle the male in their company, today of all days. _He_ wasn't their opponent, it was a safe way of building their own confidence.

"Have you thought about what to do?" Laney continued. Maybe using the conversation as a diversion or pastime til her name was called, and he didn't begrudge her that either; she wasn't being condescending, at least. "What you're good at conjuring? They've told us –" _They_ being the arena mentors, if the girls' mothers could afford such a thing, and evidently Laney's mother could; _us_ being _girls_ – "To be careful making weapons, because they can be used against you. For instance, if you can conjure and throw a spear, you've got to be careful to dismiss it before your opponent throws it back. Same for close-combat weapons. I think, a small knife hidden in your hand –"

She broke off as another name was called, and the girl with the cropped hair moved to the arena-door at the other end of the holding room. Confidently dropping the robe. Merlin couldn't be bothered to be affected by the view.

"Though whatever you do, it should be quick," Laney reminded him. "Keep it simple. For instance, if you want a rope, don't try for a _rope_ , all those strands braided together, just cord or twine. A sack, instead of a net, you know?"

Faintly through the pale stone of the walls, they heard the roar of a great crowd. Merlin tensed and straightened, Laney turned toward the arena-door curiously.

"Laney," the attendant read from her scroll, bored. She looked to be mid-thirties; Merlin wondered how long she'd held this post, to be so unaffected by the violent death of at least a few of her charges.

"Already?" Laney said, surprised.

The attendant shrugged. "Last girl didn't take long."

Laney rose and moved slowly forward. "At least tell us if she made it?"

The attendant smirked. "You want to know that, you got to make it to the citizen's reception room, across the way," she said, "same as the others."

Laney turned and looked over her shoulder at Merlin, and he guessed what she was thinking – they'd only see each other again if both of them survived to be granted citizenship, in that other chamber.

"Good luck," he said to her. His voice sounded husky, speaking for the first time that day. His throat was sore from the tension of holding back his tears for his oldest friend – and the only one, he'd thought, who cared if he lived or died.

"You as well," she said.

It came to him that he hadn't told her his name. "I'm Merlin," he said, standing.

"I know." Her smile was sympathetic for a fact he hadn't yet realized. "Everyone knows."

As the door closed behind Laney, the attendant sneered at him. "Everyone knows who you are today, _boy_ ," she said, making his gender an insult. "Tomorrow they'll say, what was his name again? and by next week, you'll be nothing more than a tally mark in a log book and another reason for males to accept the inevitable without wasting our time."

"The inevitable," Merlin said quietly, thinking of Gaius. The male criminals beyond that door – and some of the girls, too.

"Slavery."

The other girls remaining said nothing, watching for a moment before turning their backs.

Merlin retreated back to his seat on the bench, feeling the stone of the wall cold and rough against the bare skin of his back, staring into his palms. Laney hadn't told him anything he didn't know; he'd been conjuring since before he could even remember. It had been a shock to realize other children had toys that they _didn't_ make themselves, and that didn't disappear the next day to make space for whatever new ones their imaginations suggested. He had pitied them several more years before realizing _they_ pitied _him_ for his poverty. With his mother, and Gaius, he'd never considered himself poor. Until lately…

They left Merlin til last. Maybe to keep the crowds – for the sake of curiosity or something darker – maybe to diminish his significance or dull his edge with waiting.

The arena felt overwhelmingly crowded as the attendant closed the heavy wooden door on the now-empty holding room. He glanced back to see there was no way of opening it, from this side, and stepped forward to the edge of shadow and light. He judged it would take him fifteen seconds at least to sprint across the great circular expanse, it was that wide. Though the several inches of sand that floored it would give him trouble… he noticed fresh rake-marks in several areas, covering the absorbed evidence of the girls' battles that had gone before.

His mother had never told him, how she'd won. They'd never come themselves to the spectacle of the citizen-trials, any year before now – it cost money they didn't have, and none of them were inclined to watch such an event. And he hadn't been paying attention to the other girls' tales.

Merlin was aware of the laughter and jeering from the stands rising around the arena, as he moved out; he was aware that he looked like one of the criminals.

He wondered, as his heart picked up its pace, how fast the two men he'd chosen could sprint across the arena – and which direction they'd come from. There were great wooden doors like the one he'd come through, at various intervals around the wide circle. A holding room for the prisoners, a room for the dead – he wondered if they still segregated male and female corpses. A room for bestowing citizenship on victorious girls, a room for granting pardons to victorious criminals. Before they were sent right back to the slave-block.

The uncertainty drove him to the center of the arena in a nervous jog, spinning in place in case he didn't hear which door opened to admit his opponents, over the noise of the crowd. He was suddenly glad neither his mother nor Gaius was here. He could ignore all the strangers in the stands, to deal with only two down here.

Merlin discovered that he didn't want to become a killer. Not even to gain citizenship – but to avoid dying himself?

The sun and dread warmed perspiration from his skin; he thought he was trembling. He wondered if they were delaying on purpose –

And then turned to see one of the doors, just closing.

The big one and the mean one, dressed as he in loincloths – but making a much different impression in their near-nudity, that of unmistakable and imposing strength. He wouldn't have to worry about conjured weapons turned back on him; he couldn't let it come to close combat or they'd kill him with their bare hands.

For a moment they stayed together, the big one bent slightly as if to speak to the mean one – they hadn't shaved _his_ head, Merlin noticed, and his own scalp prickled with sweat under his shaggy black hair – and the mean one nodded.

Interesting.

Then they split to circle him, a bit – his empty hands came up, automatically defensive though their approach was oblique, their stance slightly crouched, sure and strong and exactly the same. Military training, then. Prior acquaintance? Cooperation?

Three seconds of moving too far apart for him to watch both at once comfortably, and they sprinted for him.

Attention divided was effectiveness divided. Merlin chose the mean one.

Kneeling to put his hands down on the arena floor, he conjured a cord, long and thin, snaking fast as sight, ending in a section of light hide, also beneath the sand. He kept his head up to watch the mean one's running feet – timing was _everything_ –

His fingers closed around the cord – sand flew as it emerged taut from the sand – and he yanked with his entire body, even turning and running a few steps to tighten it as he felt the sudden weight at the other end of the line.

The mean one fell with a shout of surprise and anger, tangled and enveloped in the trap he'd conjured; half of one kicking leg only showed outside the tightened hide.

The big one slid to a stop on the sand, turning away from Merlin, turning toward his partner – in that moment more concerned with what had happened to _him_ , than either attacking or defending against Merlin.

Hope soared in Merlin's chest. This, he could work with.

Dropping the cord, he knelt to put his hands on the sand again, and focused on _stone_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival stood between Gwaine and every other prisoner in the waiting-cell.

Didn't matter that they were all chained to the wall at intervals with a manacle around one wrist; he crossed his arms over his chest to face backwards to his friend. Gwaine was itching to throw a punch – had been since the other prisoners found out _their_ opponent was a male – and sooner or later, Percival knew from experience, he'd find a way.

"Easy, Patience," he said with quiet humor.

Percival himself had decided to actively ignore the abuse. Neither he nor Gwaine was the sort to commit rape, even if their opponent had been female – no one deserved that sort of pain and humiliation, even before they died. Maybe especially before they died.

The other sort of comments might have been more upsetting, if he'd let himself get drawn in – as Gwaine was still in danger of letting happen. The sort that labeled them traitor, somehow, to kill another male for their own freedom.

Never mind the percentage of other prisoners there who'd been incarcerated for murder.

He ducked and shifted to make sure Gwaine's dark eyes met his own, and no one else's over his shoulder. Gwaine glared.

"Don't," Percival said. "Save it for the arena. Start a fight in here, they'll slit your throat and yank someone else from the prison to face our kid. Breathe, and think of our pardon."

Gwaine nodded and did just that, moving restlessly in the corner – the far corner, which made Percival think somehow that they'd be going to the arena last – like a charger scenting battle.

"Think they'll send us back to the border?" he said quietly.

Percival shrugged. "Better than capital duty," he said. "Bit more freedom…"

"Who are they going to send us to, though," Gwaine interjected. _Serious_ was rare for him – when it happened, Percival paid attention. "With our reputations, it won't be someone decent, you think." He moved his arm to tug at the manacle. "Percival, what if… say a couple of these other jackasses were facing that kid, okay?"

He grunted, agreeable to consider the what-if.

"Would you consider it a worthwhile sacrifice, for those two to die, for the first male citizen in a century?"

He didn't consider himself a fast thinker, or a deep thinker – it wasn't a requirement for someone built like him, and it was never encouraged in their gender. But it was a pastime he'd indulged in before, and Gwaine the only one he'd ever met to be completely unsurprised, finding that out.

"I think it depends on that kid," he concluded. "Someone who's a coward or a sneak or a thief, the females conclude they're right to keep the lot of us chained as brainless brutes. Someone smart, though, someone successful –"

"Provided they allow him to be successful," Gwaine muttered darkly.

"Yeah, I'd say," Percival said. "Any two of these dung-heads would be well-sacrificed to give a male citizen a go. You and me, though –" he grinned as Gwaine looked up with a sardonic smirk.

It slipped as Gwaine's gaze moved past Percival's shoulder; he finished the sentence, "Are next."

Percival swiveled, uncrossing his arms, surprised to see the last prisoner but them released to the sun-bright arena beyond the heavy wooden door. He'd been ignoring the rest of them too well, it seemed. Or maybe his thinking had taken longer than he was aware. He blew out his breath in relief, though – at least they'd made it through this stage. And at the next one, they'd be rewarded for killing someone…

"If we let him kill us, we don't even get to see what kind of citizen he becomes, if he does us proud or not," Gwaine remarked. "And if it's too obvious that we threw the fight…nah. I'll distract him for you."

Percival nodded in agreement. It meant a higher risk of some harm befalling Gwaine – though he could take it – but it also meant Percival would be the one snapping the skinny boy's neck.

Which he regretted already.

The female attendant rolled her list into a scroll and shoved it into an inner pocket of her blue uniform jacket; she fingered keys as she strode toward them, then reached to unlock Percival's wrist. "Let's go," she said, circling to do the same for Gwaine.

Percival heard Gwaine make a lighthearted joke behind him which drew no response from the woman; evidently she wasn't amused. Then again, she'd probably heard just about every lame joke a man could come up with, in this situation. He began to stretch out his muscles as he headed for the door.

The crowd was audible – raucous mocking sarcasm – while the arena was still just a bright blur. And it made him angry – if anyone was daring to cheer for the boy, they were in the overwhelmed minority.

Ignoring them also, he focused on the boy standing in the center of the sandy space, gazing about the stands as if feeling overwhelmed himself. They'd let him wear a loincloth too; Percival wasn't sure whether he was glad the youngster was allowed to maintain a last shred of dignity, or offended that he'd been made to appear a criminal also – but he turned toward them at the moment Gwaine emerged beside Percival and the door shut firmly.

"Go right, stay low – and be careful!" he said aside to Gwaine, already moving to the left.

Split up the target. That was basic training, common sense. The boy might have some ability in conjuration, after all. The desire to go down fighting, or a last-minute impulse to self-defense – at least he wasn't screaming, running, cringing with fear. Percival almost _hoped_ –

The boy knelt, flattening his palms on the sand – but his head was up, eyes focused on Gwaine.

Something sparked Percival's instincts – he shifted from circling to _attack_. The boy sprang up from the ground, yanking up something that scattered sand in a long fast line – right toward Gwaine.

Who yelped over the noise of the arena.

Percival felt the impact of Gwaine's fall through his bare soles and checked himself – turning to assess Gwaine for injury, ascertain what-the-hell –

His friend was a shapeless bundle on the sand. Writhing furiously inside a… sack?

Suddenly wary, Percival turned back to the boy – who rose from a crouching position for the second time.

And a great wall of stone rose under his hands. Slanting away toward Gwaine, growing higher and higher, five feet then six – a wall of solid stone.

 _What_ the hell. Percival didn't gape – soldiers didn't gape.

Another half a second, and the boy at the origin end of the conjured wall leaned like he was pushing it.

The wall tipped. Over toward Gwaine. Still trapped – blind – inside the sack.

Percival sprinted again, his own palms outstretched. Three paces from Gwaine, he hit the wall – solid as it looked and _heavier_ – he grunted and braced. Feet apart, one shoulder nearly touching the stone.

Joints popped. Sweat sprang out on his skin – his knees buckled –

The tilt of the wall slowed… stopped.

Percival could hardly breathe for the strain; moisture beaded and trickled down his body. His pulse roared in his ears, but beyond that he could hear Gwaine shuffling about and cursing. In memory, Percival saw and realized that the rope which had drawn the sack tight was caught under the wall.

Gwaine was not going to be able to free himself, or move out from under the stone.

Percival could not turn his head to see if the boy was coming to kill them both. He pushed at the stone – it didn't budge. He tested – carefully – yes it would fall if he let go.

Which he almost did, at a touch on the inside of his left thigh.

"Do you know what will happen," a voice said from somewhere just beyond his hip. Young, male, unfamiliar – serious and calm. "If I cut you, just here."

The touch shifted to mark a line from the front to the back of his upper leg, along the inside, tickle more than sting though Percival identified the sharp edge-and-point of a knife. He tried to think of some way he could kick, knock the blade over to Gwaine – but he was frozen in place. Even the slightest twitch could ruin balance and concentration.

"I'll bleed out," he responded in a slow rasp – and gasped in a little air to replace what he'd used.

"Probably in less than a minute," the boy agreed. "You'll weaken before you die, though, which means you'll probably have to watch your friend die first…"

And horribly.

Percival's heart pounded and sweat trickled; he dared to tilt his head slightly so it would stay out of his eyes. Gwaine, almost near enough to kick, yelled in smothered rage - demanding to be freed, to be told what was going on. Yelled for Percival.

"Surrender, and I'll dismiss the wall."

This time, Percival had very little time to think. Surrender meant lifelong slavery in service to the victor, no manumission possible. There were criminals who chose that, in the arena, but it always depended on the dubious desire of the teenage female to keep a criminal as a slave.

It was that, or death. But not just _his_ , Gwaine's also. And if he didn't choose – spasms cramped in his arms, his lower back.

"I surrender," Percival grated out.

"They've got to hear you." The boy sounded apologetic. The wall remained, but the blade at Percival's inner thigh disappeared.

Percival licked his lips – thought twice – focused on his lungs and greater volume. "I surrender!"

It was very quiet, but for the air rasping through his throat.

Then he heard his name, shouted urgently by Gwaine inside the sack. "Wha' d'you jus'say?"

"Surrender," Percival gasped, suddenly desperate to settle this before he _slipped_. "Surrender, Gwaine, or you'll be – crushed to death – please… trust me –"

The boy could have killed them. He didn't want to kill them. And if Percival was any judge, he was also a better-than-average conjuror. He had neutralized _two_ opponents, and without serious injury – so far – to any of them. He'd chosen mercy. Was lifelong slavery worth the chance of seeing what sort of citizen this boy would make? Was death preferable to him as a master?

Gwaine mumbled something that was probably, _I hate you_. Then lifted his own voice to enunciate through the material enveloping him, "I surrender!" A moment later, he spat an obscenity and Percival could hear him and feel the vibrations of him scrambling back.

So the boy had dismissed sack and rope first, for Gwaine to see for himself, the situation that had warranted surrender.

Was that clever of the boy, or compassionate. Both, maybe.

Percival was distracted from the question by the subsequent and immediate dissolution of the stone wall. He lurched forward in reaction, limbs momentarily beyond his control, still trying to push against a great weight. Landing on hands and knees, he let his head drop, shaking and panting.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Gwaine's legs from the knees down, move into view next to him. "You all right?"

His voice held more warning than concern, and Percival responded to it, reminded of where they were and who was watching. He rocked back to his haunches and raised his head, shaking out the trembling and ache in his arms. "I'm fine."

The arena was dead silent – ironic, since all three of them were alive and unharmed. He turned his head to look at the skinny boy, hovering near them with a faint frown and an air of incongruous apprehension. The boy noticed the knife still in his hand and released it in a dropping motion; it disappeared, and he twined long thin fingers together nervously.

"Well done, sir," Percival said quietly.

The boy flinched like he'd called him a foul name in insult, shock stark in his dark eyes.

Before any of them had a chance to say anything further, both the boy and Gwaine alerted to something behind Percival. He glanced over his shoulder, then rose and turned as a female attendant with her iron-gray hair in a short tail – and a thunderous expression – approached them.

"Come with me," she demanded.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

In the third month of summer, the air was warm enough and the sun bright enough that Gwen was glad for the cool stone and extended overhang of the arena's royal box. From her seat – stone but sumptuously padded – in the middle of the comfortably private space, she could see about half the sandy floor four levels down, and that was good enough for her.

Good enough for Lancelot, too, who lounged in the seat beside her, leaning on one elbow to hover solicitously over the tray of daintily cut fruits and cheeses between them. He was doing an admirable job distracting her from the carnage – violent, pitiful, swift, prolonged – below them, describing his home estate, his life and family, in undemanding phrases. His mother was fortunate to have three daughters, they were still underage and in tutelage, he himself was content to act as steward in the meantime.

If they all were so placid as he, she figured the three girls would have no problem employing their brother about the estate for the rest of his life.

Arthur, on the other hand… He was seated on the front ledge of the royal box next to one of the supporting pillars – the better to see the proceedings in the arena below, she assumed.

As Nimueh was doing, in the front right corner of the box, though resting more appropriately in a seat, out of earshot of the three of them to remain intent upon each match. Her secretary beside her took notes with a charcoal pencil in a slim leather-bound folio – more than one royal recommendation or sponsorship would be made for a new citizen's future, come tomorrow.

Gwen noticed that the pillar would mostly hide Arthur from the queen's casual glance – was that deliberate on his part? – but he sat sideways and participated, if nominally, in conversation with her and Lancelot. Til now, the interaction between the three of them had been lightly social. She wondered if the two lords had come to some agreement to give each other a bit more private time with her, and wondered how she felt about such a given.

"Arthur. Do you have any sisters?"

His situation was much like Lancelot's, though he acted steward of a garrison rather than a rural estate. Lords each because of their mothers' titles or rank, they had been redeemed from the military-or-slave-market choice at seventeen, their mothers paying enormous private sums to the crown for the concession. They were freedmen, in essence – their families rich and privileged, personally enjoying some few freedoms and representative authority along with their responsibilities – but still one step below a _citizen_ , in the eyes of the law.

She just didn't know if Arthur had younger sisters who would inherit, also – and what his relationship with them might be like, if he could reasonably expect lifelong employment, or not.

Arthur shifted, turning mostly toward them – his eyes flitting back to the arena action inoffensively. "I do not, unfortunately," he said. "My mother was very disappointed, but after bearing me, she was unable to conceive again."

"You're an only child," Gwen said; she wasn't sure she knew that, before. "Who is your mother's heir, then?"

Arthur maintained his pleasant expression, shoulders and posture relaxed, unconcerned. "There's a second cousin. She's serving as a junior officer under my mother's command."

Gwen hummed in genuine interest. "Anyone I know?"

"Lady Mithian?"

"I do know her," Gwen said, surprised. "She's nice. I didn't know she was related to your family."

Arthur only smiled in response, and tilted his head slightly to watch down into the arena again.

Gwen found herself watching his profile and wondering if Mithian would choose to strengthen her inheritance by bearing a child of Lady Ygraine's blood by Arthur. It would be smart, especially if the child was female… Why was she worried about it? She shouldn't be concerned about what either of them would do, if she chose them to sire a daughter on her, or if she didn't. It should be utterly selfish, depending only on her desire and whim.

"Have you tried the plum yet?" Lancelot said, leaning forward. She admired the way his hair curled at his ear – thick, dark, soft hair – enjoyed the way he glanced up to capture her with his gaze, inhaled his carefully-crafted, deliciously-masculine scent. "They were quite good this year, the southern orchards saw plenty of rain."

It should be a completely _un_ selfish choice. What was best for the kingdom, no matter what she thought or felt. Initiative and spirit and defiance? The current princess' father, as it turned out, had been a rapist and an executed criminal.

Either of these two would be an improvement, she mused, and oh, yeah, there was still –

"Here's the male candidate," Arthur said clearly – and his glance at them was too swift to see if it was directed to her, or to Lancelot.

They both shifted to their feet at once – she noticed Nimueh and her secretary move forward in their seats at the front corner of the box – and Lancelot courteously motioned for her to precede him, stepping down to take a position beside Arthur before he joined them at her other side. She leaned on her open palms over the low stone ledge, feeling a bit of breeze stir the gauzy ruffle at the low neckline of her cream-colored dress.

"He isn't much to look at," Lancelot commented, honest and inoffensive at once.

It was hard to tell at that distance, but Gwen was inclined to believe he was right. The boy appeared to be tall, but at seventeen he hadn't yet filled out his height with comparable muscle. Not like the two barely-clad criminals who emerged from a door in the arena wall opposite the royal box and to their left.

"Oh, I forgot there would be two," Gwen mourned – disinclined in the moment to examine that reactive sentiment – and turned away. She was content to learn the outcome from the other two, rather than witness it herself.

Arthur's body tensed, and he said, "He picked _soldiers_?"

Gwen cringed and didn't look. Worse than common slaves who'd broken one law or another, soldiers who were criminals were also trained killers.

Then a collective gasp went up from an arena suddenly, oddly silent. Lancelot said, in horror and disbelief, "He's going to _crush_ them."

Gwen whirled to see – a wall. Stone wall, just like every other forming the arena and its extended complex, but this one stretched right through the middle of the open sandy area, serving to hide the three combatants from their sight at least, on this side.

And it was _tilting_.

She'd seen nothing like it all day – last year – she racked her memory… Ever? Weapons of every shape and size and purpose, yes. Even a few more ingenious traps or defenses. But solid stone…

The more complex a conjuration, the longer it took to form, and the more concentration and energy it required. Likewise for objects of increasing size or weight.

Stone. Wall. She was aware that her mother was on her feet. What was he –

The wall vanished, conjuration dismissed, and the three men appeared – the big one stumbling to his knees, the dark-haired one stepping to his side. The candidate making a tossing gesture. No obvious blood, but the fight did not continue.

"They surrendered to him," Lancelot said blankly – and looked at Arthur, looking back at him.

And Gwen felt immediately, thoroughly self-conscious. Intrusive, and maybe even rude, for being a female and a citizen and a noble.

Below, an attendant stepped out onto the sand, approaching the three men; the bigger criminal stood up to face her. After a moment, they followed her back to the door she'd emerged from.

Still, silence. Everyone as shocked and uncertain as she. What did this mean? A male citizen? She moved back from the ledge, expecting that every eye would turn to the royal box, once that door closed behind the three men, and it wouldn't do to show anything but proper composure. Past Lancelot beside her and the secretary beside her mother, she met Nimueh's eyes, doing the same thing. And she could not tell what the queen was thinking or feeling – maybe she simply hadn't decided yet.

"Will Your Majesty be descending to congratulate the new citizens individually?" It was Arthur's question, spoken into the privacy of the royal box, perfectly respectful.

It was more than that. It was a reminder, a provocation wrapped in a deference that could not be doubted. What, Arthur wanted to know – and why? and why draw the queen's attention personally to verbalize the issue here and now? gauge her reaction or lack of it before she had a chance to fabricate the official version? – was Nimueh going to do about that young man.

That citizen.

"I don't usually," the queen said smoothly. Honestly. "But that boy has made history, after all… Perhaps you should go down and meet him, Guinevere, and convey our appreciation of his performance. And if the lords wish to accompany you for curiosity's sake, by all means." She waved a gesture of invitation toward the door at the back of the box. "Gwen, I'll speak with you later."

Gwen kept her sigh internal. Nimueh would want to dissect every moment of her meeting with the young man, extrapolate what he was like and how Arthur and Lancelot reacted to the fact of a male citizen. At the very least, she'd want to know Gwen's opinion of him as a possible sire for her daughter and heir.

"Yes, Mother," she said.

 **A/N: Thank you for your enthusiastic greeting of another a/u! Reader enthusiasm feeds author inspiration, it really does. As a reward, a second-day update! (Don't get used to it, though…)**

The citizenship-trials and their rules are based on the Anthony/Lackey book, as well as the outcome for the combatants.


	3. Illusions of Liberty

**Chapter 3: Illusions of Liberty**

Standing in the spacious empty chamber before the clerk's wide desk, Merlin felt nothing but numb.

The exhaustion was distant, as was the cool of the inner stone-walled room after the sun-heated arena. He noticed that his skin was ridiculously pebbled with gooseflesh, underneath his own clothes that they had kept in case he had occasion to put them back on.

He wasn't shivering, though. He was probably in shock.

 _Spell your name again for me._

It was a lot of paperwork; he wondered how long he had been standing here, maybe even swaying slightly, watching the clerk work on parchment with ink and a fine-plumed quill. Sand each sheet dry, blow it clean, set it aside atop a steadily increasing stack to be folded or rolled later. His paperwork.

The arena attendant and the clerk exchanged a glance that was unreadable to him. Wary or mocking or calculating…

 _M-e-r… l-i-n._

 _Very good_. Sarcasm. _You can spell your name. Smart kid._

He was a citizen, now. He had the right to demand respect, to challenge them both. The right, but not the energy or inclination.

To the side – his left and their right – the chamber's inner door opened, and his head turned of its own accord.

A young female entered. Handful of years older than himself, dressed in a fine almost-white material, dark eyes, dark shoulder-length ringlets, dusky skin. She smiled at him.

She was flanked by two males – gorgeous tailored clothing over gorgeous tailored bodies, one blond-haired and blue-eyed, one dark of hair and eye. Polished boots, dark pressed trousers, bleached blouses under sleeveless thigh-length tunics, one buttoned gold-yellow, one embroidered gray-tan.

Both other women were on their feet, bowing slightly from the waist, murmuring the same greeting, slightly offset. A greeting that was also a title. _Highness_.

Oh, dear.

Merlin's knees buckled, dropping him to a graceless kneeling position – he noticed her sandals had rough-cut gems of different colors laced into the straps and he was willing to bet they were _real_ – Gaius had taught him protocol, years before, but he'd never met anyone ranked highly enough to deserve –

She laughed.

Princess Guinevere laughed, and it had a light, pleasant sound. One jeweled sandal stepped forward, the skirt crinkled – and he flinched from her hand on his shoulder.

But looked up. There was amusement in her eyes, but also a direct friendliness.

"That is no longer necessary, _sir_ ," she reminded him.

Oh. Right. Heat suffused his face as he scrambled up to give her a stiff bow from the waist, uncertain whether a second obeisance was strictly necessary, but if the first one had been wrong – better to err on the side of caution.

"I'm Guinevere," she continued. "But many people call me Gwen."

Did one say _Nice to meet you_ to royalty? He'd forgotten the proper response. He wondered if he was caught in a dream, and he'd wake to dusty rafters overhead and a cold hearth and… Gaius.

"Merlin," he managed. "My lady. It's an honor to meet you."

"I believe the honor might be mine as well," she continued, still light and lively but without the faintest hint of condescension. "There have been other princesses, after all, these last hundred years…"

He stood still, hands heavy at his sides, and never had he felt more alone.

If she felt the awkwardness, she didn't show it; she carried on like a professional – which she was - introducing her male companions. The dark-haired one nodded cordially, almost immediately letting his eyes slip past Merlin, content to maintain the distance and unfamiliarity between them. As if Merlin was ordinary and unremarkable, and Merlin was glad for it.

The light-haired one stared, blue eyes sharp, through Merlin dropping his own gaze and glancing back up to check if the stranger still watched him. Merlin couldn't read him – he almost seemed angry at Merlin. Which was illogical, he hadn't ever met the man, and he hadn't done anything to anyone.

"You don't have anyone with you today? You're here alone?" the princess asked. The answers differed – nod or shake his head? – in his confusion, he didn't respond. She prompted, sounding exactly like she cared, "Your mother?"

"No, she's – " _sunken eyes, gasping breath, my little son_ – "not here."

"I should think she'd be proud of you, what you did was very brave," Guinevere commented.

And maybe he imagined the hint of disapproval, but he said immediately – to those sandals, though, he didn't dare look any higher – "She was. She would be. Um. She… died last month."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

Again she touched his shoulder, and again it was unexpected, and again he flinched. And checked – the light-haired man still _studying_ him. With… disappointment?

"Well, I won't keep you," she added, and he had the feeling she was including the attendant and the clerk also. "Today was an important day – you must have plans – to celebrate." The last word was almost a piece of sympathetic advice. "If you ever need anything, Merlin, I'd be pleased to have you come to me."

Surprised at the offer, which sounded genuine rather than pitying, he lifted his eyes to hers; she nodded and smiled corroboration of the offer. He whispered, "But what am I to _do_?"

That startled her a bit. The light-haired man said neutrally, "Start with going home. Take a bath. Take a nap, eat something. You'll feel better."

Something – words, tone, manner – made Merlin feel young and foolish, though the princess looked gratified that her companion had spoken. Merlin bowed stiffly, stepping back, and watched jeweled sandals and two pairs of polished boots retreat through the door.

"Your papers," the clerk said, handing him the thick roll of leather-wrapped paper, tied with a string. "Identification. A copy of the code of law, which you're now personally responsible for."

She released it as soon as his fingers touched it, her lip curled in a disdainful grimace. He should say _thank you_ , he thought, and didn't.

"Good day," the attendant added, with clear overtones of _get-the-hell-outta-here_.

He squeezed his paperwork in the leather roll and went to the inner door. He didn't think he was supposed to go out to the arena again – he didn't want to – and no one stopped him.

Start with going home.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival began to suspect that their new master had forgotten them, while they were still in the clerk's chamber. The skinny boy didn't turn around once during the slave-branding, for either his or Gwaine's – though of course neither of them made a noise about it.

"Where are the others?" Gwaine asked the slave with the tongs, a middle-aged man with extra pounds and no hair. The slave didn't answer, dispassionately raising the piece of glowing-hot metal as Gwaine tilted his head and held his hair out of the way. "Other citizens?"

Percival looked away from his friend's involuntary wince. The sensitive flesh on his own neck was throbbing hotly, still, telling a story of a larger and more serious burn than it was, than he saw from the same one on Gwaine's skin before the long dark hair covered it.

"No one else accepted a surrender," the low-level female officer supervising their procedure said. She was young, younger than Percival – grimacing openly as the slave finished Gwaine's permanent slave-brand. "That's what this room is for. Everyone else is next door."

"They don't have food over there, do they?" Gwaine joked.

The officer, facing the other end of the room, choked on her giggle.

Burned skin pulled painfully on Percival's neck as he turned – and recognized the female who'd entered the room. As one, he and Gwaine hit their knees; the brand clattered on the brazier behind them as the older slave followed.

The position bothered Percival. Always had. Not because he didn't think someone like Princess Guinevere deserved the show of respect; she did. But one could leap up and be ready for action, kneeling on _one_ knee. With both down, it was harder. He felt hampered in his ability to respond to unexpected danger – and so he kept his eyes up, though his head remained properly bowed.

Not close enough to hear the conversation. The princess corrected their boy's instinct to kneel, also – they had to get his name, at some point, he reminded himself. Other than that, the new citizen betrayed no reaction, from behind. Percival scrutinized the two men to either side of the princess – _bodyguards_ , he thought, and then _no, only one is a trained fighter_. Did they dress them so fine at the palace? He would have assumed matched livery there, but for-

Oh. Oh, the way the light-haired one eyed their boy-master, and the princess here to greet and congratulate, instead of the queen. It was starting already.

She was evaluating his potential, and the light-haired one at least knew it. Jealousy? Not quite… Though the princess did seem kind, almost sweet. Not a hint of seduction, though she touched the boy-citizen twice, and smiled.

Then she and her two – _suitors_ , Percival thought, it was almost an amusing idea – left through the inner door again.

And their young master was accepting his fat scroll-prize of citizenship – and turning to the door.

"Impatient, isn't he?" the female officer observed as Gwaine and Percival rose to their feet. "Better hurry and catch up."

"What about clothes?" Gwaine asked.

Her cheeks pinked as she glanced them over – still clad only in the arena loincloth. "You're his property – clothing you in his business."

"He probably forgot." Gwaine left her with a friendly grin.

Percival followed him out, through the corridor that led right to the street, outside the arena and just down from the Citizen's Center. They emerged to see their master getting his bearings, then plunging down the nearest cross-street, scroll tucked tight under one of the arms hugging his chest. Percival spared a single glance for the Watch building, thinking of all the other boys who'd come of age, held in its bowels – tomorrow those who wished to risk themselves , life and limb, would be tested for the military's quota. The rest of them marked for slaves and sold.

"Well, come on then," Gwaine said.

Percival fell into a marching step beside him; it probably made for a better sight than two men sauntering along trying to be inconspicuous in next to nothing but their skin. Anyone who wasn't in the arena to recognize them maybe had heard the news by now – something like _first male citizen in a century_ was bound to be gossip for a while.

As they marched, Percival suspected that the boy had forgotten about more than their clothes.

He had the loose, awkward stride of an adolescent barely out of clumsy growth stages. Shoulders hunched, head down to avoid any eye contact with other passers-by, female citizen or male slave or children of either gender on errands or playtime.

Percival wondered if Gwaine had the same suspicion. _He_ was watching all around them, head swiveling in a way that surely hurt the tender new brand on his neck, if it felt the way Percival's did. For a moment he thought, Gwaine might be contemplating escape.

For a single instant, so did he.

But, where and to what? They couldn't return to the corps. They had no coin, and no way of earning any without permission from their master. It was scrounge or steal til they got caught – or make their way to the border to join the sort of riffraff banditry they'd spent years fighting against - and though he didn't think their master was the sort to enforce the death penalty on a re-captured runaway slave, in such a well-known and highly-visible case, the crown might enforce it anyway.

If he was being honest with himself, he wanted to see what kind of man this boy turned out to be. And possibly more – he might want to do whatever bit he could, to help him succeed. In either case, he also wanted to see that the boy made it home safely; he was not watching other pedestrians or street traffic, once or twice he even knocked a shoulder into the corner of a wall.

As it turned out, Gwaine's mind was not on freedom.

"Look at them look at him," he said to Percival, indicating the people on the street taking notice of them. "Half of 'em shocked and half of 'em angry – and half are contemplating getting with child by him."

Percival snorted his opinion of Gwaine's calculations, shoving him with his shoulder. One or two, maybe, not _half_ the women on the street. Though, more would think that, once the shock and anger died down – and more yet, as years passed and their boy looked the part of a man. Especially if he was successful in business ventures, also.

"Think he's thought about that?" Gwaine went on.

"Do you think he's that sort," Percival countered.

Gwaine made a rude noise. "I'd have been," he declared. "That kind of magic and the rights of citizenship – half the kids five years of age and under in this whole city would have been my get by now. And me the richest man in Camelot for the stud fees."

"Really?" Percival drawled, turning his head to cock an eyebrow at his friend, though the brand pulled with a resurgence of the initial sickening throb. "Even after…"

Gwaine knew what he was thinking, and shrugged. "Maybe it runs in the family," he said.

Down through the lower town they followed the boy, half of an hour at least, and they weren't exactly wasting time. Down past the layered apartments built into the hills – where the boy with his ragged cuffs and bare ankles fit right in among the rest – and Percival was both surprised and _not_ , to find that he lived at the street level. No yard, not even the use of the roof of the place below him, and the gutter running – or stagnating, rather – a pace from the doorstep. No lock on the door, and he left it swinging open, to stumble inside.

Gwaine hesitated, which startled Percival enough to linger at the opposite side of the door instead of stepping right in. They watched the boy – oblivious with his back to them – stare down at a patch of weathered floor-boards slightly darker than the rest, as if a fixture or a piece of furniture had recently been moved.

"They took your _pallet_?" the boy choked out, in a voice that made Percival's heart cringe, though he didn't understand why. Gwaine glanced at him uncertainly, then ducked as though he was checking the rest of the room for the unseen occupant so addressed.

Their ragged master slumped still further, and staggered blindly three steps, fetching up against the bricked hearth-corner. He caught himself with one hand on the wall, before sliding down to a crumpled heap on the floor, letting the leather-bound citizen-papers roll unheeded from his fingers.

"I did it, Gaius," he murmured brokenly. "I did it."

Then he burst into tears – great heaving sobs that bent his upper body over onto his knees. Percival felt guilty and embarrassed for observing. He didn't think he'd ever wept so. And he never wanted to.

Evidently Gwaine felt the same way; he stepped over the threshold, saying, "Hey, kid – er, Master…"

Percival followed him automatically, but as his bulk shadowed the doorway and Gwaine's voice cut through the boy's sobs, he startled violently, twisting in place on the floor to raise both hands defensively. Percival – and Gwaine, half in front of him – froze in a slight crouch. Incongruously, he pictured a great stone wall bursting through the room to separate them from him, but nothing happened.

"Easy," Gwaine said softly, showing that his hands were empty, continuing to speak slowly. "We're not going to hurt you. Know why? Because drawing and quartering looks a mercy to what they do to slaves who hurt their masters. Of course, _usually_ the master is a _mistress_ , but… You forgot about us, didn't you? You accepted our surrender in the arena. Means you're stuck with us for slaves, for life."

"Oh," the boy said blankly.

He stared at Gwaine, then Percival, then Gwaine again, before scrubbing tears from his face self-consciously, and trying to scramble up. Weakly, and on his second try, Percival brushed past Gwaine to take a knee by the hearth and keep the boy in place with a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy," Percival repeated. "Magic like you did today, takes a good bit out of you, doesn't it? Just rest a minute."

"I'm sorry," the boy fumbled. "I forgot… I don't really have…" He gestured, and Gwaine turned as Percival did.

To see that the boy's entire home was a single room, less than half the size of the chamber where he'd become a citizen. Absolutely bare. No furniture, no fabrics – towels, curtains, rugs, _bedding_ – the grated hole in the floor in the far corner for waste, and the wicker door of a small built-into-the-wall cabinet on the opposite wall of the hearth. No hopper for firewood, no poker no kettle no broom.

Percival heard what the boy hadn't said. _I don't have work for you_. That was problematic; he and Gwaine weren't really domestically trained to begin with, but the bodyguard function they might have filled best wasn't really necessary for him after all.

 _I don't have space for you. I don't have…_ anything?

"Food?" Gwaine suggested, with a grin so eager, it was entirely inoffensive.

The boy huffed and shook his head, swiping one cuff at the outer corners of his eyes, one then the other. _Money_? Pervival thought, and was glad Gwaine didn't ask the naturally following question. It occurred to him, maybe the boy didn't need them, but… maybe he _needed_ them.

"I've got an idea," Gwaine said, spinning for the door – and just as quickly, spinning back, an odd look on his face. "That is, if I have your permission?" The boy's thin face showed confusion, and Gwaine prompted, "Master?"

Percival could tell, the boy resisted that as much as he had _sir_. "What shall we call you?"

"Merlin," the boy said. Blinked at Gwaine, then Percival, and said more decisively, " _Just_ Merlin."

It was a good start. With a cocky or domineering master, Gwaine would have gotten himself killed within a week from sheer _I-can't-take-it-anymore_. With a talented but spiritless one, it would feel awkwardly like they were his caretakers. But even though he was understandably overwhelmed, Percival was reassured to see some spark there. Backbone, humor, personality, something. And that was everything.

"I'm Percival," he said, shuffling back to rest his rump on the single layer of bricks forming the hearth. "He's Gwaine." The boy – Merlin – ducked his head, which was enough greeting for their odd situation.

"Food?" Gwaine said again. "And, I don't mean to sound picky, but folks will take me more seriously if I'm actually wearing clothes?"

"That's only til they get to know you better," Percival added. "Then no one takes you seriously."

"Hey!" Gwaine grinned.

"Oh," Merlin said again, blankly, and scrambled to his feet, using the wall for support. He held out his hands in readiness to conjure, then hesitated for half a second. Percival glimpsed his uncertainty, and Gwaine spoke up.

"Just what you've got on is fine, and don't bother about footwear," he said breezily. Held out his arms and turned slowly as if to show off his body for the fit.

"Make the arms and legs too short," Percival advised Merlin, who gave him a startled look. Gwaine mimed kicking Percival.

Cloth fluttered from Merlin's fingertips, tan cotton, formed into simple trousers that would tie at the waist – but the far more interesting phenomena glowed in the boy's eyes. From blue to gleaming gold in the time it took for his conjuration to complete, then he gave them a quick flap and handed them to Gwaine.

"Your eyes," Percival said, before he could think about tact.

Merlin flushed. "The change in color? Yeah…"

"Doesn't do that for everyone," Gwaine observed, stepping into the trousers without hesitation.

"It's kind of a…" The shirt took shape, of the same material – again simple, the front of the collar slit so it would go on over Gwaine's head. "Rare side effect."

Percival wondered, how rare. He'd never seen that before; then again, the conjurors among the female officers he was used to, were probably among the weakest of all magic-users.

"I'll be back," Gwaine told them, ducking back out the door, but leaving it open. Percival preferred that, and guessed that Merlin would as well, at least until they got a little more comfortable with each other.

"He will, you know," he assured the boy easily. "Be back, I mean."

Merlin hummed like he was concentrating on making a similar set of clothes for Percival, but he caught a flash of a glance – more than just the glimmer of conjuration side-effect – surprisingly intelligent.

"You've been friends a long time?" he said, handing over the new trousers.

It was a first for Percival, wearing something that wasn't actually anything, and that someone else could vanish at any moment on a whim. An act of trust, he supposed, and got up from the hearth to put them on. "You noticed that," he said, and it wasn't a question. So he went on. "A couple of years. We were in the same unit at the southwest garrison."

"Caerleon," Merlin said.

Percival made a noise of pleased acknowledgment, tying the trouser-strings at his waist. Boy knew that bit of his geography, at least. "You live here alone, then?"

Merlin glanced at the patch of slightly-darker floorboards. "No. Well… not anymore, huh?"

Percival considered allowing himself to be dissuaded by the boy's light tone. He fingered the material of the shirt Merlin handed him. A recent loss, he thought, coupled with not really expecting to live past today. He wondered if it was a last family member, maybe. Trying to decide what to say, he pushed his arms into the sleeveless tunic Merlin had conjured for him, and yanked it roughly over his head – surprising himself when it rubbed unexpectedly over the tender spot on his neck, just below his military-mark, by the feel of it.

Merlin noticed too. "What's that?"

Almost, Percival batted his hand away, turned so it wouldn't be visible to the boy; he wanted no pity… from… his master. He forced himself to hold still.

"They… oh, lords." Merlin's fingers trembled, touching him, and then Percival moved back.

"Permanent slavery is indicated with a brand," he said neutrally, and glanced at the boy to see his long fingers brush dark hair back in an unconscious gesture, revealing unblemished skin behind and below his ear. "It's gone," Percival added, straightening the longer edge of the sleeveless tunic over his trousers. "Yours."

Merlin made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Then took a deep, deliberate breath. "Gwaine, too?"

"His hair hides it." Percival settled into a comfortable attention-rest stance, just as if he were back at the border barracks, waiting for orders.

"It hurts?" Merlin ventured. "I can do something for that."

"It's fine." A moment later, Percival took pity on both of them and the awkwardness of the situation, and relented. "But if you'd like…"

"Okay."

The boy's eyes lit with something like eager relief, and Percival realized for the first time, he was going to like his master. He had the makings of a good man, which meant Percival would find it fairly easy not to resent his servitude. That settled something in his chest, in the region of his heart.

Merlin reached for him, but Percival was too tall for whatever he had in mind. "Um. Would you like a seat?"

For answer, Percival dropped to his knees, and inclined his head sideways. After a brief uncertain pause, the boy conjured a low three-legged stool, and folded his long limbs to perch comfortably. Blue eyes gleamed gold, and hands circled almost without thought, creating a tin bucket which caught a gush from one of Merlin's palms, even as a white cloth appeared in his other. He dipped it in the bucket's water and began to clear the area around the new brand.

That caught Percival's eyebrows, trying to rise at the casual and quick display of magic. He held still once again, focusing his gaze on a spider-web in the far corner of the ceiling. And in spite of acute discomfort, he could tell that Merlin's touch was both gentle and sure, the water a decent warm temperature. The cloth was dismissed in the blink of an eye and the next thing Percival felt was cool. The boy's fingertips, very careful, but the cool sensation remained, perceptibly soothing the throb of the burn.

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

One of Merlin's hands moved into his field of vision, fingertips smeared with a thick white paste. "It's a mixture of, um. Calendula, honey, aloe, and… beeswax. It's good for… burns."

"You just conjured that?" Percival incredulously, remembering at the last second _not_ to turn and stare at his master.

"Yeah. It's not that much different than conjuring complicated dishes of food, or any other object really, as long as you know what's in it and how it's put together…" Merlin dismissed the cream on his fingers with a careless little shake.

 _Handy_ , Percival marveled scoffingly to himself. And a strip of white bandaging cloth fluttered from the boy's fingers as he wound it about Percival's neck – again gentle but _sure_.

"Who taught you this?" he asked.

Merlin made a neutral noise. "Friend of mine."

Percival breathed, and shifted to watch Merlin finish the bandage from the corner of his eye. Merlin noticed, his gaze jumping from his work to Percival's face and back again, obviously unsettled by the scrutiny. Percival tried to understand; if the boy had been used to a simple, quiet, solitary life, the unexpected inclusion of two strangers such as he and Gwaine – fighters, criminals – would unnerve anyone. And so far, he'd given them everything – their lives, clothes, this tiny one-room apartment as home, and now medical care. What had they given him back? What reason did he have to trust them?

"I grew up in the capital," Percival said. "Nowhere near here, though – the north end."

Merlin tucked the last end of the bandage under. Percival reached to touch and test it, and Merlin pushed his hand away – conjuring in another instant, a small disc of polished silver which he offered wordlessly. Percival took and tilted it, examining the bandage – then handed it back with a nod of approval and appreciation. Merlin cupped it between his hands and huddled over his elbows in his lap.

"I was the oldest," Percival went on. "My ma had two daughters after me. They were –" memories of innocent, private laughter – "sweet, and funny, and pretty. Growing up, I was their bodyguard – when they played, when they went somewhere… My ma made sure I had plenty to eat, exercise, and even some training with our neighbor's old slave, retired from the Watch." Merlin's eyes were glued to his face; usually Percival left the talking to Gwaine, but this, he felt, was important. "I never conjured anything, as many times as I tried. So – my ma did her best to see I'd pass the test for soldier." He bit his tongue on the rest of it, _instead of bowing my head for the slave-mark._ A reminder that he'd ended up enslaved for life anyway would _not_ be helpful right now.

"Have you seen your family since then?" Merlin asked, a bit wistfully.

"No. My ma came with me to the Watch building for the soldier-test, but once I passed, she said she'd done her duty by me, and we were even. She didn't look back, walking away."

Merlin made a thoughtful noise, and Percival was distracted from the memory; he raised his eyebrows in question. "Well, I mean," the boy said. "It's the mothers that get the slave-price, when a boy's first sold, compensation for raising him. Your ma spent extra to see that you _weren't_ sold."

It was another way of looking at it, Percival conceded. Then again, he'd worked hard to repay his mother for everything she gave him, too.

"Maybe it was hard for her to say goodbye," Merlin suggested. Percival wondered why that sounded _personal_ to the boy, and maybe he caught some of that, blurting out, "What about Gwaine?"

"Gwaine grew up in the garrison town, Caerleon," Percival said, giving away no more than Gwaine would want him to. "His mother worked there, his father was one of the soldiers. Gwaine earned his own way starting early, running errands and messages." Among other things. Fighting and stealing, mostly.

A shadow fell across the open doorway, and Merlin jumped up from the stool.

"Well, isn't this cosy!" Gwaine said cheerfully. "Were you talking about me?"

"Yes," Percival said without hesitation. Merlin's head snapped about to look at him in surprise, but Gwaine laughed, before noticing something else.

"What happened to you?" Gwaine said, stepping over the threshold and gesturing to Percival's neck.

"Our master conjured some ointment and bandaged it for me," Percival said evenly, and Gwaine's glance at the boy was far more evaluating than carefree.

"Do you want – me to –" Merlin's tension was back, a bit.

Gwaine looked back at Percival – _do it_ – and the devil-may-care fighter acquiesced to the skinny, awkward boy with a shrug. Percival stood back against the wall where they could both see him as Gwaine squatted on the stool, shaking his hair back and tipping his head to allow their boy-master access to the burn. Cleaning cloths were conjured and applied; the white paste smeared right from the Merlin's fingertips.

"About dinner?" Percival prompted, because probably Merlin wasn't used to taking charge. Of strangers, of other men – older than himself, and trained warriors.

"I found a place that'll feed the three of us for free tonight," Gwaine said. Merlin stopped to stare at him in surprised disbelief, but Percival knew Gwaine better, and cocked his eyebrows in invitation to continue with an explanation. "A public house, but it was clean and quiet. The owner said give her an hour to announce it – but that's perfect because we've got to get you cleaned and dressed, too."

Merlin's attention was on the bandage, as Gwaine lifted his hair out of the way, and it took him a moment to realize the last was addressed to him. "What?"

"She gives us as much as we can eat and drink," Gwaine repeated, more slowly, "and in return, the first male citizen in Camelot in a century–" he gestured to Merlin – "sits in her dining room for the evening. She'll do five times as much business as usual, people coming in to take a gawk at you – so we've got to give them something to gawk at, right?"

The look Merlin gave Percival was simultaneously imploring and panicked.

Percival grinned.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen watched her mother, leaning contemplatively sideways in the chair behind her desk in the dimly-lit office, and wondered if Nimueh had ever truly, fully confided in anyone.

Not her. She'd known that from an early age, and until the last couple of years, had thought it was because of her youth. That one day, her mother would trust and tell her everything. And then she could do the same… But it never happened, at least not yet. It had hurt Gwen to realize that she was another piece on the game board, to the queen. An important piece, but still someone to be watched and evaluated and used. But that was all right, it was a consequence of being queen – and as princess, she sacrificed any normal mother-daughter relationship they might otherwise have had.

None of the clerks or secretaries, other officials or generals or ladies or merchants. Not Gwen's sire, that was for sure. Maybe her own mother, but Gwen barely remembered her grandmother, she'd died so long ago.

"And you're quite sure it was not an act," Nimueh said, focused somewhere to Gwen's shadowy left. "Not the boy's manner, nor the skirmish in the arena."

"I think he was still a little vague because of the conjuration he'd done in his fight," Gwen said again, "but no, I believe he's naturally shy, uncertain. Not cunning or deceptive. The two slaves were present, but there was no interaction between him and them - they might know each other, but I'd wager they never met the boy before. There's no way their fight could have been staged."

"So he's strong, has a steady hand and eye under threat, and fast reactions," Nimueh mused. Gwen didn't know what to say; that was true, too. The queen pushed herself up from the chair, paced to the door and back. "But he has no taste for the kill. And he's clever – or instinctive – enough to avoid it."

"Honestly, I think he was as surprised by that outcome as any of us," Gwen offered. _No, he's not a threat – except maybe to himself_.

"What about his clothing?" Nimueh said abruptly, turning to pace back. Rubbing her fingers together as if they itched to conjure something on their own.

"His – clothing?"

"Yes, I was told he was quite poor." The queen spun and stalked into shadow again.

Gwen thought of confused blue eyes and pale clammy skin, bony frame and sparse ragged clothing, and wished she didn't have to answer. The poorest quality, patched and well-worn, shirt and trousers both, thin cheap shoes without stockings. Then again, he hadn't conjured anything finer, either, even for appearances, and that said something about him. She said finally, "I would agree with that."

Nimueh gave a feminine grunt. "His mother was with him? And the slave-tutor, what of him?"

"He was alone," Gwen said. "He said his mother had been deceased since last month, poor boy." Oops. That sentiment should not have slipped out.

Nimueh's head came up at that; she stopped halfway along her paced route, then turned deliberately to face Gwen. "You favor him?"

Gwen set her jaw. She'd made the offer on the spur of the moment, but didn't regret it, and wouldn't hide it, either. The boy really did need _someone_ ; most of the girls either had familial support, or won some form of recognition the day they became a citizen. She didn't imagine Merlin had or could expect the same. "I told him to come to me if he needed anything."

"You're going to sponsor him?" Nimueh said, incredulous.

"Of course not," Gwen answered. "I don't know him – his ethics or business sense. I'd offer only advice, or…" She waved a hand vaguely.

"Good," Nimueh said inexplicably, turning to continue pacing. "And you're certain you want to exclude him from consideration as sire for your heir."

"Yes," Gwen said. Maybe if the question could wait five years, if they could become friends, if he could gain some… confidence. He seemed a bit like a lost puppy, forlorn and far too youthful. The emotions she'd felt on meeting him were more motherly than romantic. Nimueh looked over her shoulder and Gwen affected shallow carelessness. "Those ears, Mother – I couldn't risk those ears."

"Almost I could persuade myself to take him as my lover," Nimueh remarked, and Gwen maintained composure with an effort.

Shocked. Not that her mother would take a lover – but so young and an innocent? Before a boy's coming-of-age he wasn't eligible for sexual invitation, though mothers often allowed their underage daughters a little judicious experimentation with a male previously vetted; a slave could not say no, but as citizen Merlin would have that right, at least. But would he know that? would he dare? The word _prey_ came to mind.

"Far too political," Nimueh sighed. "Maybe even desperate… no, better if I seem passively indifferent." She glanced at the marked candle flickering on its stand near the desk, and drew herself up, businesslike again. "Thank you, Gwen, you may go – are you returning to the feast?"

"Both the lords were still there when you sent for me," Gwen said. Because that was what her mother was really asking – not out of curiosity for her daughter's plans for harmless fun, but – one candidate eliminated left two more still to choose from.

And the marked candle was burning down on that decision, too.

"I won't be returning, I have some business to see to yet this evening." Nimueh returned to her seat behind the desk, and Gwen found herself stepping to the door.

"Good night, then, Mother."

Not waiting for a response – she'd long ago learned not to take the lack of one personally – she slipped out and pressed the door shut behind her until the latch clicked. For a moment she leaned her back on it, just breathing in the night air from the open alcoves to her right down the corridor and past the banquet hall; the spaced torches flickered in cool breezes bringing the faint scents from the banquet.

Realization and remembrance had her pushing upright and beginning to move slowly down the hall – Nimueh said business, and Gwen did not want to be caught loitering outside the door. A dozen paces from her, someone emerged from the banquet hall, a dark shape that seemed to notice her before approaching. She initially identified _male_ , and a few more steps had her puzzling why his carriage was so unique – and then his hair caught the last of the banquet light before he moved into the dark of the corridor.

"Arthur," she said, letting her voice sound surprised. "You're leaving us for the night?" She slowed as he stepped up to her, a bit closer than they'd ever been before, as was necessary if they wanted to see more than a dim outline of each other.

"You mean, you're returning to the banquet?" he said. She made a noncommittal noise, and he shrugged. "With Her Majesty absent – and you – and Lancelot just left as well…" He trailed off and she suddenly wished she could see his expression more clearly. Not that it would help her; his expressions were unusually difficult for her to read.

"Arthur," she said again. Brave in the dim and emotionally tired of the day, and this dance. "Why did you come here? to Camelot?"

"I have always responded to royal summons. And Camelot is cooler than Dubois in the summer."

She said nothing, but her shoulder found the wall of the corridor and the cool stone was both comfortable and comforting.

He sighed, a bare whisper of air movement, and joined her, beside and above, as he was taller, and said her name – full name, without honorific, and it sent a not-entirely-unwelcome thrill through her. "Guinevere. It's not a secret is it, why I'm here? And Lancelot?" His tone altered just slightly. "And young Merlin?"

"What do you mean?" she said, shifting back from him a little. The subject was rather obvious, but not one she'd spoken about openly to either of her prospects, and to include Merlin was rather a startling leap of intuition on his part.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but whether it was your idea or your mother's, I'm willing to bet he was suggested as possible sire for your heir. A male with magic strong enough to become a citizen."

"Yes," she said, and it was a relief to be honest. "I mean no, not after… meeting him. I mean, he's obviously good at conjuration, and not at all bad-looking, but…"

"He's young," Arthur said softly, and he sounded relieved himself. She was suspicious enough to wonder if he'd been jealous, or was simply concerned about the boy, too.

"He lost his mother last month," she said. "And after today – he needs a chance to find his feet. Even if it would be smart of us to absorb him into palace life, it wouldn't be fair to him."

"I am glad that you think that," he said honestly.

Before she could ask him anything more personal – _what else do you think, what do_ you _want_ – he alerted to the sound of women's voices and footsteps approaching from the hall behind him. They both straightened; he turned, and she looked past his shoulder, past a door-slave carrying a torch to light the way for the females he guided.

Gwen recognized them. The Twins, though they weren't identical – one blonde and dark-eyed, the other raven-haired and green-eyed – they were uncannily similar in almost every other way. The length and curl of their hair, the misleading delicacy of their features. The toss of the head, the glitter of the eye, the knowing smirk.

Businesswomen, and lifelong partners. Money-lenders.

They walked arm-in-arm, dressed in voluminous dark cloaks like they wished to conceal their identity, but the hoods down, now that they'd reached their destination. They had not come from the banquet room.

"Your Highness," Morgause said. Gwen nodded to their perfunctory curtsies with regal stiffness; she'd never liked or trusted either to get close to. Morgause seemed ready to sweep past, herself, before her twin spoke, with a hint of sarcastic spite.

"Arthur."

Gwen covered her surprise as he responded with a half-bow from the waist, his eyes lowered. "Ladies."

"Please excuse us, Highness," Morgause said – a courtesy, not a request, as she'd barely paused, though she showed patience for her sister's delay.

"No rest for the wicked," Morgana commented to Gwen with a smirk, moving her skirt where it would not touch him as they passed. "Good luck, Arthur."

Gwen watched their retreating backs – down the corridor, to a door where the slave knocked and entrance was immediate. Her mother's private office.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said immediately, and without the slave-borne torch, the dim of the hall hid his face again.

"What was that?" she said, more surprised than offended. Everyone knew why Arthur was here, after all, it was just an – odd thing to do, address him on the topic in front of her, who would do the choosing. She began to walk down the corridor, past the banquet hall, toward the open chamber on the corner of the palace; it was ringed with balcony-alcoves, but also led to the guest quarters on the adjacent wing. He kept pace politely and respectfully – but also companionably.

"That was…" he sighed. "Ill feeling between their mother and mine. A long-standing feud."

"I didn't know you knew them," she remarked, curious. And waited through the pause.

"The Twins are a few years older than me," Arthur said. "After I was born, my mother tried for several years to get with child again… by my sire. She was unsuccessful."

"Yes, you said."

"Vivienne – their mother - wanted Ygraine to relinquish her lover, my sire, for her own use. My mother refused, Vivienne took offense. There were offers, accusations, insults, and… it's been between them ever since. I can only assume Vivienne's bitterness and jealousy was communicated to her daughters."

Gwen couldn't help the small noise of thoughtful surprise. Arthur's sire must be – have been – something special. She wondered why Ygraine hadn't relinquished her lover. She wondered if he'd passed much down to his son.

A little excitement and a little uncertainty seemed to flow beneath her skin at his confidence. Was she beginning to tame him, was that what this was? Was it something more basic, more real, more genuine? Or was it, _good luck, Arthur_.

What did he want. Was he playing the game as well, angling for a position like his sire, somehow manipulating a woman – a princess this time, rather than just a general and the queen's cousin – into refusing to give him up? Into giving him – what?

Or. Was that Morgana's way of sabotaging his chances of being chosen, and he had no more ambition than simple obedience and performance of duty?

"Highness, I will bid you good evening." She hadn't been paying attention, but they'd reached the circular corner-chamber. It was no better lit than the hallway, this late at night, but the air was a welcome cool. She realized he'd taken her hand at some point, and lifted it now to his lips as he bent his head, his breath ghosting over her knuckles. "I hope you sleep well, and I look forward to seeing you in the morning."

"You as well," she managed, and watched him release her hand and turn away, slip through the door to the guest chamber he'd been given.

It was what she'd been raised to, this intrigue, these guessing games. Reading an opponent and making her own moves accordingly to gain the outcome she desired. Only – what was that, anymore? And did she really want that complication, that tension, in her bedroom? Did she want to keep that mask on, even as she took off everything else? Make herself vulnerable, but not honest? Maybe she'd prefer to choose someone ordinary, with nothing to gain or lose, who only wanted to be with her… if she could find someone like that.

She found herself wandering the perimeter of the chamber, where torches still flickered in frequent sconces, as the breezes played with the flame. Ducking into the central balcony on a whim to see if the moon was visible, she startled again to discover another man-shape, alone and unoccupied.

"My lady," he said, surprised but calm and solicitous. It was Lancelot.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was out here," she said – before realizing she didn't have to apologize to him. Ever, about anything, she thought; he seemed the sort content to believe she was always right, simply because of her gender and title.

"I can leave, if you'd rather be alone." He'd been leaning his hips backward against the railing, and straightened, joining her in the narrower doorway on his way out.

"No, it's fine," she said. Breeze gusted, and she shivered; he stepped to block it with his own body, and she could feel his heat. She looked up into his face – gorgeous face, she thought objectively he might be prettier than she was – into kind, dark eyes. "Why are you here, Lancelot?"

"I thought the night air –"

"No, I mean – why did you come to Camelot?" She could smell wine on him, light and warm and spicy, maybe just enough to knock the edges from his inhibitions – if he had them, and the courteous reserve wasn't completely natural.

"My presence was requested by the queen," he said, sounding puzzled.

She stepped closer to him, and maybe it was a trick of the uncertain light, that his eyes dipped rather lower than her face. Did he find her attractive as a person, then? she wondered curiously.

"What do you want?" she said softly. "Out of life, I mean?"

"I want – to serve the kingdom and its people, to obey my queen – my princess – in whatever way is required."

Lancelot wasn't stupid. Neither was she.

"Your duty?" she challenged. There wasn't a hair's-breadth between them now, but their bodies weren't quite touching.

He leaned his head down, closer, but not daring. Lancelot never would dare; it didn't seem to be in his personality. "My pleasure."

Gwen swung her hands forward, brushing the backs of his hands. He didn't move; he was very obedient. And sincere – he only wanted what she wanted, whatever that was, nothing more. She ran her hands slowly up his arms, fingering the fine smooth material of his blouse, loose over the firm warm flesh beneath. Well-defined muscles – upper arms – shoulders. He stood still, allowing – enjoying? She wondered if his breathing quickened, and what caused it – if he had done this dozens of times, and recognized her inexperience.

She let gravity draw her hands back down, but pulled his arms forward as they went. His fingers grazed the material of her dress – sides, then back – as she placed his hands very deliberately around her.

Then tipped her face up to his. Still he stood in the position she'd placed him in, waiting.

She wondered what Arthur would do, in this situation. And why.

His jaw was smooth-shaven, his scent intoxicating. She drew his face down and kissed him.

Thoroughly.

Half a second, and he was kissing back, matching her intensity, passion, exploration. His arms tightened around her and he shifted his weight to bring their bodies into closer contact, but otherwise neither hands nor lips wandered.

She felt like she knew him already. Lancelot was understandable, controllable, safe. Perhaps not intriguing, but not unsettling, either. The attraction was there, the mating would be enjoyable, she guessed.

Temporary.

Best for the kingdom?

And why did she think of Arthur's disappointment to learn that she'd chosen Lancelot? There wouldn't be the same feeling and reaction, in reverse, were she to choose Arthur, only acceptance, from Lancelot.

Why? And did that matter?

Gwen stepped back, and he let his hands drop. She supposed – until she could answer those questions, until she knew clearly what she was doing and why…

"I think it's time for bed," she said.

"Of course, my lady," he said obediently, "lead the way." His voice was a bit hoarse as hers had just been, and she realized he'd misunderstood her words.

She flushed and was glad for the dark – but couldn't help surprise at such immediate capitulation. What of Arthur, then? She'd planned to inform both men of her decision, before any bedding took place; it seemed only fair. "No, I mean… Good night, Lancelot," she said. "I'll see you in the morning."

He bowed his head gravely and respectfully, once again perfectly collected and amenable to her decision, meaning no more than what he said. "Good night, my lady. Pleasant dreams."

…..*…..

 **A/N: A bit longer than usual, but I wanted this all in one chapter because there's a little time that passes between this and the next. Also, I think the only thing I got from the book this chapter was the glimpse of the complication introduced with Morgana/Morgause…**

Aerist: Thank you for your review! Just a warning, if you do go look this book up, there is that 'little' matter of demon sex and threesomes…

I've tried to clarify some of the coming-of-age rules in this chapter, but just so everyone's on the same page: At the age of seventeen, a girl must prove her magic in the arena, or be killed by her opponent. A boy has the choice of attempting to prove his magic against two opponents, or submitting to the slave mark – of those, the military has their pick, depending on their quota needs, before they're put on the public block; their mark would be different than a slave's, but their testing would be fairly brutal as well. I think I address the rules of sex and marriage a little more later on, but basically an underage girl has to have her mother's permission – and in any case, if it's someone else's slave (or a soldier) the owner or commander's permission is also required (sometimes a fee, as well). It can be a onetime thing, or an established exclusive thing intended to produce offspring – marriage is rare, simply b/c of status.

Arthur and Lancelot were basically bought from the crown pre-market by their mothers, redeemed at high cost and freed, so they bear no slave or military mark (the title has more to do with their mothers than any power or authority they have apart from her). However, freedmen are _not_ the same as citizens, and don't have the same rights – to do business, to marry, to own slaves.

Normally, a slave can be manumitted by his owner and become a freedman, but in cases like Percival & Gwaine, that option is nullified by their surrender; Merlin _can't_ free them. (That's a consequence the citizen-candidate should take into account in the arena, also.)

Female criminals pay fines or pay with their life. Male criminals (those that aren't executed immediately, like rapists) are kept imprisoned until the trials (or until the prison is too full, etc.). If they kill their opponent, they receive a pardon but not a manumission – either returned to the military or sent to the slave block again.

Normally I don't like having to do this sort of explanation, but this is a very complicated a/u, and the format of delayed chapters puts a strain on the reader's memory… sorry!


	4. In Pursuit of Happiness

**Chapter 4: In Pursuit of Happiness**

It took Merlin a week to get used to having Percival and Gwaine around. More than around; one or both was always with him, walking about the streets and collecting offers as they'd done all week.

It had been a long time since Gaius had walked with him.

Still something of a shock to remember _slave_ , though, in reference to his new companions. That he was both citizen and slave-holder at once. Because he'd never really thought _slave_ about Gaius, and because Hunith had been the old man's actual owner.

The first night, huddled on his conjured mattress, tears had come unbidden. He crumpled a similarly-conjured pillow to his face to muffle the sounds he couldn't quite silence, grieving. For his mother, for Gaius, for his life. His mother, he couldn't keep; Gaius had not wanted to stay – but he felt the regret keenly, that neither of them had lived to see that they'd succeeded, with him. He mourned for himself, the loss of the last person he could ask, _What do I do_.

The curious eyes of the female citizens and their slaves who'd come to gawk, as Gwaine had put it, turned his stomach upside down. And if he'd actually eaten anything else that arena-day, he would have deemed the experience not worth the price. Except that, he was responsible for the provision of the two men whose lives he had spared to claim.

It was the sound of Gwaine snoring, on the mattress laid next to his on the dusty floorboards of the tiny dark apartment, that finally soothed and amused him to slumber.

And it was the sound of them moving quietly and whispering – not to hide the content of their conversation, but to let him keep sleeping – that sense of responsibility of provision, that prompted him to open his eyes and wash and face the day.

Each day this week had been far more public than any in his life. Make himself visible, profit from female curiosity. He'd eaten far better this week than any other week in his life, also, and the rent was paid for another. _Merlin_ on the contract, in place of _Hunith_.

A concerted effort, and he thought the other two knew it, also. Maybe it had begun with, they knew what they had to do with him and for him, to earn their meals through him, but now… It was cooperative and implicit partnership and an amiable balance that seemed to suit master and slaves, both.

What settled him, however, was the third evening. Full moon, and high energy from the continuing success of their first venture – to sell his presence to public eating-houses – had the two former soldiers ill-disposed to rest.

"Do you mind if we exercise a bit?" Percival had said. Merlin found the big man was more imposing than his companion, quieter and more serious, more thoughtful. He could be intimidating, Merlin guessed, but hadn't yet seen that. "We can use the street – it's deserted."

Merlin wouldn't have blamed them for disappearing one of the previous nights, for all Gwaine's talk of not hurting him, but they hadn't. So when he ventured to watch them, hidden in the shadow of the open doorway, it was not for fear that his slaves would run away.

Gwaine was harder to read. Words came so readily it was hard to take any of them too seriously, jokes and teasing, and he absorbed Percival's succinct jibes with an absolute good humor that astonished Merlin. And made him feel quite warm on the inside, when one made some quip at the other's expense – then glanced at Merlin to include him in the joke. Assuming he understood it, and the fact that it communicated affection. Including him in the affection. The long-haired man seemed completely carefree and downright frivolous at times – but something told Merlin, there was more to him. He imagined Gwaine could be very dangerous if he ever lost his temper – which was why he never took anything seriously himself, enough for that.

That night he'd watched them unseen, marveling a bit at the methodical, military way they went about efficient drills they both knew by heart; he'd never seen the like before, but for the Watch patrols marching the street – infrequently in this neighborhood.

He watched them stretch, exercise muscles, wrestle and race and spar, and he saw friends. Two men who knew each other and were comfortable with each other and cared about each other, something he'd only glimpsed in the arena. He saw two men whose characters he could respect, because he saw what they valued – the respect of their companions.

The fifth night, Gwaine had said, "What about leaving us a brace of torches, please, Merlin?"

And neither had said anything when he'd crouched on the doorstep to watch their routine in the flickering conjured light. Neither had done anything different, even to the laughter and teasing insults.

Percival had said, "Care to join us for a footrace or two?"

And Merlin had. He'd beaten Percival, but not Gwaine, who'd huffed a laugh and informed Merlin, "He's too big to be a sprinter, but Percival can run all day and all night if he has to."

They'd all sprawled on the curb – after Merlin conjured a wave of water to clean and clear the gutter – to catch their breath. And Merlin had dared to ask, "What put you two in the prison?"

As master, he had every right to the information. The nature of his slaves' former crimes. As friend… he was nervous, asking.

They were neither embarrassed nor apologetic. Nor offended. "I was defending the barracks cook," Gwaine claimed. "A couple of transfers were being insulting, so I showed 'em what it felt like to have a hard day's work so maligned. They took exception."

"And a carving knife," Percival added.

"Percival," Gwaine continued without acknowledging the interruption, "big idiot that he is, thought he was watching my back – and broke the second man's."

Merlin thought about it for a moment. Soldiers, and therefore used to violence. Trained to it. Maybe not even the first time they'd killed. Not quite murderers, though if they started – or finished – a fight that turned lethal, so the crime would be recorded. Nothing underhanded, though, nothing premeditated or even unfair. Defending a friend.

"You have to admit, though," Percival said, addressing the stars contemplatively, "that stew was lousy. It did, in fact, taste of rat droppings."

It was on the tip of Merlin's tongue to wonder teasingly, how Percival knew what that tasted like, but he didn't quite dare.

Gwaine retorted, "I said I was defending the cook, not his food." And he nudged Merlin with his elbow – the first physical contact Gwaine had initiated.

And last night, there had been weapons.

One had mentioned, _too bad we don't have_ , and Merlin had offered. They'd spent half of an hour describing and explaining, til Merlin conjured a pair of swords they were pleased with – and then impressed him with their sparring. So fast, so intricate, heart in his mouth though the blades were dull and neither touched the other.

Neither was leader, between the two, and neither was follower. And that balance suited Merlin, too, as they all grew comfortable with each other's personalities. They learned that he didn't mind comments, ideas, suggestions. And he learned that they didn't resent his; though he couldn't – and maybe even wouldn't – phrase his contributions like orders.

No sullen silences, no veiled glares, no goading insolence. Just three men trying to make the best of odd and unexpected circumstances.

Maybe it was because their lives – necessities and comforts, worry for future provision – depended on his, but he felt about them like he'd felt about Gaius. Companion, with a common goal they'd all work together to reach. He hoped it would stay that way.

Though right now, he was the only one not working.

Merlin stood shifting his weight subtly, watching Gwaine crouch and crawl, arranging the conjured bedding. Mattresses and pillows stuffed with wool, covers of light linen for the season. Though he'd initially offered silk sheets and mahogany bed-stands – as a joke and because he didn't want to insult them by offering something less than what they expected – they'd decided on comfortable, but without extra fuss.

 _Better than plank bunks and scratchy moth-eaten blankets_ , they'd agreed. And thanked him.

Did other slaves thank their masters for provision? And did other masters feel warmth in the center of their chests, when they did?

"Don't even think about it," Gwaine said, startling Merlin to attention.

"What?"

Percival spoke from his position across the hearth from Merlin, squatting on his heels with his back to the wall for support. "You were looking for floor-space to conjure a chair to sit down in."

"I was not," Merlin protested, shifting his weight again.

Percival gave him a stern look before turning his eyes to his task again – sewing buttons onto Merlin's blue silk tunic. Both were conjured materials, but it was easier to do them separately, than to conjure a garment with embellishments like buttons.

Sewing buttons. With such a tiny space and next to nothing real to fill it with, there weren't many daily chores. Sweeping, rinsing out the waste-grate. Neither of them minded, rather volunteered when something needed doing, and Merlin made sure he did his share. Tonight, that meant not wrinkling the fine clothing he'd already conjured and donned, while Gwaine saw to the beds it would be nice to come home to, rather than the task of making them, and Percival plied the fine conjured needle with his big rough soldier's hands.

 _Well, who do you suppose does the mending for the soldiers?_ he'd asked reasonably, when Merlin had first betrayed surprise at their familiarity with the chore. They'd answered together, matter-of-factly, _The soldiers_.

"What were you thinking, then?" Gwaine challenged. Finished, he sprawled on the floor between two of the mattresses, legs out and his weight supported on his arms.

They'd agreed upon a sort-of uniform – not a slave's livery, nor yet the military garb they'd been used to, but made them feel more professional than the simple garments he'd conjured the first day - dark blue trousers and soft boots for both. A white cotton shirt for Gwaine, light but sturdy, that he wore with the sleeves rolled up and open at the throat, no bandages while they were out but with his healing brand covered by his hair. For Percival Merlin made a hardier tunic in the same color, sleeveless and thigh-length, with a higher collar that covered the bandages.

The brand-marks had been worse, the second and third days. But Merlin believed the danger of infection past, as long as they kept them clean, though healing wouldn't be complete for another fortnight. And then the marks were permanent.

"I was thinking about, what next," Merlin said.

Gwaine dropped his gaze past Merlin to Percival; Merlin turned to see the bigger man looking away from whatever their shared thought had been. So they were aware of the question needing an answer, too – that was good.

"I mean, it's not that I'm complaining about making a spectacle of myself…" Gwaine grinned, and Merlin backed up a step to lean carefully against the wall opposite him, so he could see both other men at once. "I don't mind making myself available to offers for free meals. But it's going to start to feel like begging, or –" _Selling myself_ , he didn't say.

A moment of silence and another significant look passed between his two companions.

"What about the other sort of offers?" Gwaine said deliberately, his dark gaze on the toes of his boots, rather than Merlin's face.

"Um." Merlin felt his face heat, and then he couldn't look at them either.

Percival pushed to his feet and stepped over his mattress – the one closest to the door – to bring Merlin the blue silk tunic, finished with a row of gold buttons. "I've had requests," the big man said, holding the garment for Merlin to put his arms in, and adjusting the fit over the creamy blouse as Merlin buttoned it. "So has Gwaine. Women wishing us to speak to you about… sexual contracts."

Merlin focused on the buttons. "Mm hm."

"Sums were mentioned," Gwaine said evenly. "Even including a courtship period with expenses included, if you're shy or nervous about being shown to the bedroom first thing."

Lords. Now that would really be selling himself. Begging or prostitution. And maybe it would have been better to take a slave-mark, if this was what his life as a free citizen came to.

"Why," he said softly.

Percival cleared his throat, glanced back at Gwaine. "I had one who said, one-time thing. For fun and… curiosity. More who wanted a child from the union."

"Because of my magic," Merlin said bitterly, and then the buttons were done and he had nothing to occupy his fingers.

"Mirror and comb," Percival said only.

It was routine, by now. Merlin held out his hands and focused on conjuring the items – the fine-toothed comb more difficult than the large plate of polished silver that Percival held for him. He wasn't completely sure why they insisted on this, since he ended up nervously shoving his fingers through his hair at various angles throughout the evening anyway. Gwaine joined them, and this time Merlin did not have to be told – encouraged, cajoled – to adopt their highly-recommended soldier's stance.

Feet even, but apart for balance, toes forward. Shoulders back, head up. Deep slow breaths, and confidence. Eye contact for equality's sake.

"This is why," Gwaine said, beside him in the silver mirror. "You're easy on a woman's eye, kid."

Not much better than, _because of my magic_. Was it too much to ask for people to look deeper than that? With all the women he'd met this week, he hadn't made any _friends_.

" 'Course," Gwaine added with an impish twinkle, "You'll never be as pretty as _me_ …"

Merlin snorted, and dismissed the mirror as Percival held it out a bit. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to," Percival told him. "You fought for the right to say no."

He couldn't help wondering – probably they'd both been with women, they were older and well-built and well-mannered and good-looking. He wondered if their first times had been awkward – and _his_ , he felt, was going to be highly significant because of his unique status.

"You could skip the ones that are just for a good time," Gwaine offered. "Go halves on a courtship before you decide if she's worth making a longer-term offspring contract with."

"We'd need ready coin to go halves in the first place," Percival pointed out.

Merlin was nervous and unhappy, standing still and discussing this. "If we can think of something else, let's," he blurted. "If I'm not going to sell myself, I'm sure as hell not going to sell my children."

He turned his shoulders sideways to move between them to the door, but Gwaine arrested him with a touch on his arm both light and brief. "You know," he said in a tone of discovery. "You're a citizen. That means – marriage is a good possibility."

Merlin was startled enough to stop, and turn to face both of them again. Gwaine was grinning back at him; Percival gazed thoughtfully into a ceiling corner.

"You have your pick of any girl who'll say yes," Gwaine continued triumphantly. "You might even get a few offers like that, eventually. Means you'll be able to raise your own kids with one woman – though actually, if you wanted kids, you've the right to proposition and negotiate for custody."

Merlin felt sick, and Gwained looked thrilled until he noticed.

"What's the matter? Surely it's a good thing for the first male citizen to be a father." He glanced at Percival, who looked faintly disapproving. "Eventually."

"What do you know about your father?" Merlin said. "I know nothing. _Nothing_. Not his name, who he was… I only know, my mother was stationed at the north-eastern garrison of Ealdor when she was caught with child. Left the military because of me. Bought Gaius because of me, lived _here_ because of me." He flung his arms out to indicate the tiny apartment at the bottom of the lower town.

He'd never spoken about this to anyone, not even Hunith or Gaius. And he hadn't allowed himself to think of it in a long time.

"Scraped a living caring for kids whose mothers paid someone else to do it, to focus on their business. For me. And my father? Out there somewhere. Growing up, my mother conjured very little, because she _couldn't_. It was hard for her, it was _exhausting_. What little we had, _I_ made. So I think, my strength must have come from my father. Who didn't dare try for the arena."

And now he was having to wipe salt-water tears on the cuffs of the fine white blouse he'd conjured, while he waited for their reactions – pity, embarrassment –

"My ma was a whore," Gwaine said, and Merlin was startled as much by the utter absence of humor in his voice, as by the words themselves. "No, I mean that literally, she was a professional prostitute, employed by the military to distribute rewards for the soldiers that earned them. _She_ didn't even know who my father was, and she didn't care. Any more than she cared about any of her kids."

Silence. Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn't suppose he had it so bad after all… and especially if he'd earned the trust of a man like Gwaine, to tell him a story like that.

"It's not uncommon," Percival observed calmly, "for a child not to know their father, in the poorer sections. When a woman has no coin and no slave of her own, to accept illicit liaisons." They both looked at him, and he shrugged his great shoulders. "When I was a kid, I hoped that my neighbor's slave, the one who trained me, was my father, but I didn't know for sure. My mother wouldn't tell me."

"At least you had someone to look up to, to train you and teach you things," Gwaine said, but thoughtfully and without bitterness.

Percival hummed agreement. "And you had Gaius, Merlin?"

"Yes." Merlin took a deep calming breath, and let it out. He hadn't spoken of his mentor to his two new companions yet, but they really did need to get going if they didn't want to anger their hostess and jeopardize their dinners. "Let's go."

Out the door, their boots fell into a comfortable marching pace behind him. As they threaded their way through the streets – past carts and booths and puddles, around corners and upwards toward the finer neighborhoods closer to the palace – Percival spoke.

"Was he the one who taught you how to conjure that burn paste?"

Merlin kept his head up and his eyes forward, but spoke over his shoulder. "He was slave to a physician, most of his life. Sold when she retired, but she'd given him a good education, training in healing by conjuration and nature. That was when my mother bought him."

He'd offered his old friend a manumission, after his mother died in spite of everything Gaius could do, when the old man blamed himself for not being able to cure her. Only to find out that Hunith had offered to free the old man many times, at least on paper, and Gaius himself had refused, content to remain where and as he was. For Merlin's sake, he thought, but probably for his own as well – with the old man's health failing, where would he have gone and how would he have provided for himself?

"Healing by conjuration?" Gwaine asked. "I've never seen that – our healers used plain old needle and thread, and boiled bandages. And good luck to you."

Merlin threw a distressed grimace over his shoulder.

Percival shrugged. "Border garrison soldiers."

"Oh. Well – you know conjurations don't last more than twenty-four hours, so there's some things it can't help with. Stitches, for one. And you have to know what goes into the ointments and tonics and in what amounts, before you conjure that. But hot water and cloths and bandages that have to be changed anyway, can be done easily. Crutches to specific measurements…"

"How come," Gwaine spoke up, "your honey or herbs can work in that paste, but the same conjured honey or herbs, doesn't do a bit of good down your gullet?"

"It's because…" Merlin stopped and squinted at the distance, the square of the buildings and the curve of the roads, gilded by the setting sun. He called to memory one lecture that had resulted from his insistence for more than _because_ , then turned to face them. "Okay, for most illnesses or injuries, your body can heal itself, without any external aid, even if that aid does come in handy. Something like honey only _helps_ your body fight off the infection, stitches _help_ a wound to close and bleeding to slow, willow-bark tea _helps_ pain to subside more quickly than it would do, on its own. Yes? But your body cannot produce its own nutrition. So conjured substances can effectively supplement the healing process – but not the digestive."

Gwaine's dark brows were down in a grimace of protest. "That's simple enough to be true," he said sardonically.

Percival shrugged acceptance, if not understanding, and commented, "It's an idea."

"What is?" Gwaine asked.

"A clinic."

Merlin stopped halfway through turning to continue on their way. "A clinic?"

"Sure. If you already have a decent training, and you can conjure a certain amount of your supplies – that means no work needs to be done cleaning them up afterwards, either – then all we'd need is…"

"I know a few basics," Merlin said, excitement and panic warring at the center of his chest. "I would need to learn –"

"Half a dozen physicians in this city," Gwaine put in. "At least that many apothecaries. Maybe someone would take you on for –"

Merlin was already shaking his head. "The newest citizens get apprenticeships, that's true," he said. "But there's no way any of those dozen women are going to pay _me_ enough for three men to live on, when they can pay a girl with no dependents who's still living at her mother's home, and has no expenses."

"What about books?" Percival said. "You can learn from books, can't you?"

Merlin felt his eyebrows leap up. "Yes, probably – I bet the palace has a good library, _and_ the princess said if I needed anything to ask her. Permission to read their books – that's not asking for much."

"Not much at all," Gwaine agreed, eyes and teeth gleaming in anticipation.

Merlin felt the same, almost giddy at the prospect of a decent idea that wouldn't compromise principles, that would make use of skills he already had, but require more learning and study at the same time. And, if it turned out he could conjure supplies in any great quantity, he could probably keep costs down and be able then to offer care for the poorer people – freedmen and slaves and children among them.

"All we'd need is a place to rent," Percival said. "That apartment wouldn't do."

And some initial supplies and furnishings. If Merlin was tired with the conjurations for three adult men – more than he'd been used to, with Gaius – he didn't want to overestimate his abilities and exhaust himself while there were still patients waiting for care.

"So we're back to needing funds to start with," Gwaine said, disappointed.

Merlin's hope didn't budge an inch.

"We need a sponsor," he said. "An investor." And that, was definitely within the realm of possible.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The woman was beautiful.

For a moment Percival forgot everything else in the room – myriad mouth-watering aromas, the sight of guests in the fanciest clothing money could buy or imagination could conjure. The noise – conversation and laughter, the music of the stringed trio in the corner – the heat of a crowd on a late summer night that made him glad he wore no shirt beneath his tunic.

Glossy waves of midnight hair that fell to her waist. Startlingly green eyes emphasized with dark liner. Ruby-red lips and milk-white skin, gown the color of blood, a silk so embroidered with black thread that it had to be real.

As she approached – first Percival and Gwaine, tacitly guarding their young master at his small private table from too much attention at once – she glanced between them. Then, smirked and tossed her hair back in a single expressive move, and her spell was broken.

She was trouble.

He kept his face stonily impassive, but Gwaine grinned at her unabashedly, and though her path brought her closer to him than Percival, she swerved minutely. Percival caught the flicker of his friend's glance down the woman's low-cut bodice as she leaned to speak into his ear, moving his hair a bit in a way that was almost intimately confident.

Maybe it was necessary, because of the noise of the room, but Percival had a strong suspicion she'd done it that way on purpose – and it worked. The woman gave him a sweeping glance of green fire, as Gwaine turned to the table to speak to Merlin. Percival shifted to put the young man in his side vision, watched him nod to Gwaine before using his napkin and setting it aside along with plate and cutlery.

Chicken in orange sauce, buttery beans and seasoned potatoes. Better than he and Gwaine would have, afterwards and on their walk home, but as long as his belly was filled, he didn't much care what went in it.

The woman accepted a goblet of wine from the tray of a passing slave, and seated herself at Merlin's table.

Percival couldn't hear the conversation, but noticed that the two of them drew a great deal of attention from other guests in the room. They did look striking together, he had to admit, black hair and fair skin, the deep blue of his tunic next to the dark red of her dress. He wondered…

Merlin looked interested in what she was saying, leaned closer to hear better – but his gaze stayed on her face, Percival was proud and relieved to see. It was Merlin's choice, but… she was trouble. He spoke in turn, using his hands in small gestures between them; she cut him off, shaking her head. Flicking her fingers, she conjured a charcoal pencil –

And as she did so, her eyes gleamed gold.

Percival was startled into turning his head a few more degrees to watch, ignoring the jostling of the mingling crowd. Merlin gave her a smile like Percival had seen only a few times, that week, full of unexpectedly boyish delight, and kept their eye contact as he conjured a scrap of paper.

He was not sure if that rare side effect signified anything, whether it was a mark of pride or shame, but it startled her to see in Merlin's eyes, Percival noticed with grim satisfaction.

She sat back just a bit, and a thoughtful look crossed her face – a hint of harder calculation – then she wrote on his conjured paper, briefly, before dismissing her pencil without so much as a smear on her pale fingers. She leaned closer to Merlin for a moment, hand on his wrist, to whisper in his ear, even as she was moving her knees away from the table to stand.

Merlin's head dropped to listen - maybe to allow him to study the scrap - and stayed down as she rose and swayed her way back into the party, triumphant as a queen. She didn't look back – and when Percival turned to Merlin –

Gwaine in the vacated seat, attention on the scrap – Merlin met Percival's glance and absolutely _beamed_.

Oh, that woman was trouble.

They didn't stay long after that. Merlin ignored the remainder of his dinner and seemed restless and excited, and at the first glimpse of their hostess, he shot up from the table to speak to her, gesturing Gwaine and Percival to follow.

She scowled, but moments later they were out on the darkened street, and Gwaine and Percival each had a generous heel of bread stuffed with the plump chicken and oozing tangy orange sauce.

"Wha'd sh'say?" Gwaine asked around his first mouthful.

"A business offer," Merlin said. Even his gait seemed happy to Percival, eager ungainly grace. "That's – actually the first one of those I've gotten. The first person who thinks I'm more than a fraud, or a curious aberration of the natural – magical – order, a new and interesting plaything for the bedroom. I can't believe it! We are so fortunate! To think that –"

"What did she _say_ ," Percival dared to interrupt, speaking more deliberately.

It never occurred to Merlin to take offense. "She's a moneylender. An investor. Asked if I'd made any deals with other partners yet – partners! she said partners! – and if I had ideas of what I'd like to _do_ , with my life. I mean, that's just –"

Unprecedented for a woman, Percival guessed, a bit unhappily as he swallowed the last of his dinner. Maybe even Merlin's mother never talked to him about that, too focused on getting him to an adult citizenship, and maybe afraid to risk bad luck, talking about freedom and choice like it was a given for him. And this from a woman who shared a unique trait among conjurors, at a time when Merlin was so in-between, in reality and in emotion. When he was so in need.

"So we're meeting, tomorrow morning," Merlin said. "If she's impressed, she's ready to invest. That's what she said."

"What's her name?" Gwaine asked.

"Morgana."

Gwaine repeated it, drawing it out sensually, and Merlin shoved a bony elbow into his ribs, gaining only a huff of amusement.

Percival couldn't find the words to express the feelings he had. It was like walking into an ambush – he knew they weren't seeing everything, he sensed there was danger of _some_ sort, he wanted to slow down and be careful. But he wasn't in the lead; it wasn't his place to say.

Gwaine did not seem to have similar inhibitions.

"Of course she's playing a game, what woman doesn't," he responded in a low voice across the space between their mattresses, when their boy-master's breathing had finally calmed and evened out in the dark. "Of course she's not offering him charity, free gold out of the goodness of her heart. Of course she's got an angle. But that doesn't mean she's an opponent – why can't she be an ally?"

Percival rolled to his back, and told the ceiling, "I hope you're right."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Ah, the smell of books.

Gwen leaned her back against the inside of the door and inhaled – and smiled a little sheepishly at the records custodian, as she always did, as the woman turned from a proprietary survey of the nearest shelf. The custodian was a tiny woman with white hair, by turns sweet and fierce, and had been a fixture in the shelf-filled chamber since Gwen could remember. Probably since her mother could remember, as well. She smiled back, nodded knowingly, and said nothing. She was used to Gwen taking refuge here for an hour or so, every now and then.

It was the perfect hour for the room, and Gwen wandered for a bit before heading for her intended shelf. Late afternoon, no candles or torches necessary, but the sunlight was indirect; warm, but the open windows admitted the first of cooling evening breezes. Her sandals, laced to the soles of her feet, made no sound on the thick woven rugs, and as she rounded the last shelf, she reacted to the surprise of company, by freezing in place, then drawing back from sight.

Between the shelves was a small but sturdy table and four straight-back chairs with rush seats. But past that, there was a window alcove, with a cushioned bench. And sprawled on that bench – one foot up with knee bent, one leg lazily extended; elbow propped so fingers could shove haphazardly through golden hair –

Arthur. Dressed in his fine dark trousers and boots, but his tunic had been discarded elsewhere, and his white blouse was open at the throat.

For the last week, she hadn't exactly avoided her two suitors, but she'd deliberately withdrawn, even while keeping company. Maybe she was making too much of it, maybe a natural maiden shyness was subconsciously delaying her choice, but it seemed to be about more, now, than simply what she wanted her child to look like.

Of course, it didn't mean she owed them anything, once the child was conceived and borne. There was no obligation on her, to change her mind or opinions, or do anything but uphold the centuries-old laws and customs of Camelot, just as her ancestors had done. But it seemed very like, this choice would inform all future choices. Like it would define her, and her reign, before the child – the daughter – found herself facing the same choices. It felt like, in making this decision, she was making it on behalf of the whole kingdom, one future or a very different one. And so she hesitated.

As she was doing now. Feeling curious and naughty, she lingered hidden by the penultimate shelf, and studied him. She'd never seen him so relaxed, and while she knew he'd been educated as his mother's steward at the garrison, she'd never seen him with book in hand – when was the last time she'd seen any man with a book in hand? – much less so engrossed…

Only a moment passed, before he let out a soft, incredulous _Ha!_ and shifted his position, dropping his leg to lean forward over both knees. It startled her, which in turn alerted him to her presence. He snapped the book shut with one hand as she stepped out, and made to rise.

"No, please don't," she said. "You look so comfortable, and really I'm just going to stick my nose in a book anyway."

Arthur eased back, but didn't open his again. "Any one in particular?" he asked, and she relaxed a bit at his tone. Not another loaded, get-to-know-you have-you-chosen-yet conversation, but something light and inconsequential and comfortable.

"Not really," she hedged, angling her body toward the shelf and letting her eyes pass over titles inked and embossed onto spines. A single glance told him that he'd tilted his head and smiled in teasing disbelief. "Well… I have one book that I've been skimming for a while. It keeps disappearing from my room. My maid claims to know nothing about it and I believe her… It keeps ending up here, back on the shelf. I don't know how." And because of _which_ book it was, she didn't make a big deal of asking anyone else.

Her eyes fell on it and she reached – but he stood at the same time and her attention was diverted. His smile was pulled half-sideways, but it was genuine, as was the interest that lit his blue eyes and raised his brows.

"Taliesin's _Prophetic History of Albion_?" he said.

She stared. Then looked away to bring the heavy tome safely down from its place like a shield against her chest, turning to the table to put the furniture between her and Arthur.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"I think the far more interesting question is, why are you reading _that_?" He glanced at the book to indicate his meaning, and followed her, coming toward her as close as the table would allow. "It's written by a _man_."

His tone was sarcastic in a way that invited her to share amusement at social prejudices, not to attack, as though their gender automatically made them opponents on the question. She blushed and couldn't help the smile, lifting her chin in challenge.

"Yes, I know. Now tell me, how did you guess I was looking for this one in particular?" She set the book down and settled herself in one of the chairs.

He took the seat diagonal from hers. "There's an old legend about Taliesin. That his book could never be destroyed or lost, because there was a spell on it to make it reappear in its proper place. The royal library of Camelot, obviously."

Gwen's smile twisted slightly. "That's a funny story, magic doesn't work like that."

Arthur shrugged, toying with his neglected book. "Is it any good? The library at Dubois doesn't have a copy."

"I'm supposed to say, it might be well-written, but it's riddled with error," Gwen said archly, tracing the rounded symbol of a tree embossed into the old leather of the book's cover.

"You're supposed to?" he said, his voice softly intrigued. "Can't you tell me the truth?"

She looked at him, really looked at him. He looked back, and said nothing. Because in reality, she couldn't. Shouldn't, whatever. Nimueh confided in no one – Gwen never really had, either. Not everything to a single person. And a _man_ , even if a freedman.

Why did he want her to. What would happen if she did.

"Tell me something first," she said, just as soft and serious, holding his gaze. _Give me a reason to trust, my confidence won't be used against me in this game, this dance_. "Something true. Something _you_ shouldn't say."

A muscle in his jaw shifted, but he didn't look away. He was deciding to trust her. To reveal something perhaps forbidden somehow, to a woman, a citizen, the princess. Gwen found she was holding her breath – was there more to men than acquiescence to female desire and adherence to duty, and _what_ , and what would it mean for all of them, if that expression was allowed? encouraged?

"My parents are married," he said.

Again she found herself staring at him; thoughts skipped through her head like children through a chalk-game.

His father was a soldier, if a high-ranking one, not even a freedman – had the queen given permission? Ygraine was her cousin – did Nimueh even know?

No wonder Ygraine had told Vivienne _no_.

And. He had trusted her with a secret that he'd been trusted with, someone else's secret, and that someone else very close and important to him, if not also very dear. If Gwen betrayed him, it would lose him his mother's confidence, and the consequences would be born by his entire family. She was impressed, she was privileged –

She was a little annoyed that his confidence put such a weight of importance on her.

"It was – before I was born, but after my mother knew she was carrying a child," Arthur went on, a determined set to his expression. "A child, whether son or daughter. She wanted to buy his contract from the crown, make the marriage public, but – she didn't know if the queen would allow it, or whether even asking would damage Queen Nimueh's faith in her, and force the separation she was trying to avoid. I gather that extra funds were saved to buy my freedom instead, after I was born and – no other children were."

"What's your father like?" Gwen said, fascinated. Realized a second too late she should have said _sire_ , but he didn't seem to notice. Some tension left him, for amusement.

"He is – a commander, through and through. His men jump when he bellows – and I always did, too – but my mother can direct him with a single look or touch."

And these two, had raised Arthur, educated and trained him. That lopsided smile was back, and it was ridiculously endearing though he wasn't beautiful like Lancelot.

"Now. Your turn… Taliesin?"

"Well," she said, straightening and placing her hands over the cover and the tree. "His chronicling of the ancient kings is obviously biased–" she forestalled him by adding– "but of course to say that and be fair, you also have to admit that Blythewin's account is also biased. I think the truth is probably somewhere in the middle."

"And you read of the ancient kings to avoid their mistakes, someday when it is your turn to rule?" The question was genuinely curious; he looked at the book as if he'd like to slide it out from under her fingers and page through it himself.

"Every reign has mistakes," Gwen said carefully. "I think it a wise thing to learn from the past, if one is in a position to change the future."

"And –" he leaned on the table, extending one arm to touch the tip of her book's spine. "Do you read of the future as well?"

Again, curiosity rather than sarcasm, and she couldn't help thinking of one of the passages of the book that always caught her attention.

 _As water seeks its level, so the world will balance again, turning as seasons from light to dark and death to life. One man to match one woman as equals and opposites, is inevitable as change is inevitable and each will have a part to play – royal and slave, healer and killer, wild and tame, cup and sword. I have seen him. I have seen her. I have seen them, and it will one day come to pass…_

She said, "Sometimes."

 **A/N:** _ **CeriDouglas**_ **and** _ **Tif S**_ **, how's that for plot-hole-filling? *wink***


	5. A Private Corner

**Chapter 5: A Private Corner**

If Merlin was apprehensive before the appointed meeting with Morgana, he was doubly so when they stood before the building and verified their destination.

"You sure this isn't the royal treasury?" Gwaine said. Only half-joking.

Two generous stories, and half-a-block wide. No windows, but the masonry was impressively decorative. A covered porch ran the length of the front on the ground level, and two leather-clad slaves that rivaled Percival for size guarded a pair of massive arched doors – just now, standing open.

Merlin approached tentatively, but though both men – square-jawed and shaven-headed – eyed him, they said nothing and let all three of them pass.

Inside, the entry, of comparable size and shape to the porch, was dim and cool. The floors were of polished granite, and an enclosed stair rose to the second level, on the far left. Three large desks faced outwards, behind which sat three women; Merlin could not guess their title – clerk or partner or secretary. Behind them were three doors, and another slave-guard stood impassive watch over each.

Glances were darted at them from each of the women, but none met his eyes squarely, or spoke. If such a reception was intended to intimidate new business – it was working. He wasn't sure he'd been so nervous on his arena-day last week.

Braving the middle desk – its owner slender and sixties-tough, blonde-going-gray - he proffered his scrap of paper. "Ah – ma'am? I had an appointment to meet Morgana this morning…"

She glanced at it, and it didn't take her long to make a decision. "Upstairs, first on your left. If you're not telling the truth, she's got a slave twice as big as that one there to throw you out – by the window or down the stair, is up to him."

Merlin felt his eyebrows rise in astonishment. And the threat, so blandly spoken, did nothing to settle his nerves. He glanced back at Gwaine and Percival, both of whom looked determined to allow no one to throw anyone anywhere - unless maybe it was them doing the throwing. The solidarity of their support settled him – he jerked his head and they followed as he stepped toward the stair – until the clerk spoke again.

"No slaves allowed upstairs except those belonging to the twins." He stared at her, and she explained further, as if the explanation shouldn't have been necessary, and he was an idiot – "Morgana?"

His two companions looked as happy as he felt, at being separated, but what really could happen?

He could be thrown out the window and all these women swear to a female judge, it was an accident. No one would even allow Percival or Gwaine to testify.

Lords, he was suspicious.

"It'll be fine," he said to them, quiet and firm to convince himself also, and headed for the stairway alone.

His feet felt too big and heavy on the stair; his breathing quickened and his heart was in his mouth by the time he reached the top. The open doors let in as much daylight as necessary downstairs, but there were windows on the second level – on either end of a long straight corridor that ran the length of the building – though he didn't see an enormous slave ready to open them, or break them with a presumptuous visitor's body.

There were at least half a dozen doors opening onto the corridor, but the only one open was the one he'd been directed to. Another great desk, in a state of organized chaos, dominated a room the same size as his apartment, but with several more feet of space between his head and the ceiling. A pair of comfortably padded chairs, black fabric on dark reddish wood, stood ready for guests or clients, and the back wall was lined with shelves of ledgers, scrolls, stacks of tablets.

Morgana, on the far side of the desk, stood with her back to the door, studying the open book in her arms. She was dressed more business-like this morning, in a full green skirt with black-green tunic over her white blouse; he was glad he hadn't chosen anything more fancy than a well-fitting cotton jacket of earth-brown over his own white shirt and dark trousers.

"Excuse me, Morgana?" he said, after the briefest moment to catch his breath.

She turned, fine black brows drawing upward in surprise. "Merlin. You're a bit late, I was beginning to wonder."

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, and offered, "My mother used to say, I was born late."

Morgana smiled kindly, and her voice was gentle as she asked, "Your mother – I heard she's deceased?"

"Yes, she was ill and… died last month." He wondered briefly what Hunith would think of this plan, if she'd be proud of him. He hoped so.

"I see. I'm very sorry for your loss, but…" Tone and manner changed; she shut the book and laid it back on a middle shelf. "I'm glad you came. Private parties, contrary to popular belief, are _not_ the place to talk business. Pull up a seat." She settled herself behind the desk as he dragged one of the others – heavier than it looked – closer, and bumped his knees on the front panel of her desk as he perched on it. "Now, last night you said something about a medical clinic?" she began, lacing her fingers together over the stacks of paper in front of her.

"Yes." He leaned forward over his knees and delivered – mostly smoothly, he thought – the speech he'd worked out with Percival and Gwaine. Gaius' training, the expectation of access to the royal library, the use of conjured supplies to keep down costs and therefore offer services to the poorer class of people.

Her smile stayed in place, though her brows rose slightly. "Your slave Gaius, he trained you in medicine and magic? Will he be assisting you in your work?"

"No, he – he's dead as well." Merlin's throat ached at the thought of puttering about a clinic with his old mentor.

Morgana hummed sympathetically. "Normally I would advise against this sort of venture, with one so young and new to citizenship as you. Medicine is the sort of business that takes a lot of time to master – to gain the knowledge, and confident preference of clientele. But if you're aiming to serve those that might not be able to afford another choice – freedmen or slaves or children, as you said – that won't be a factor."

He wasn't sure what response she paused for, but only nodded to indicate understanding.

"I have invested in many different types of business," she told him, inclining her head as if taking him into her confidence. "That does not concern me so much as – repayment. This being your first venture and your first loan, that will reflect in the terms."

"I understand," he said, his pulse increasing again. She was going to say yes. He was going to have a future – not he and Gaius, but he and Gwaine and Percival, and that was all right.

"On the question of surety. I'm guessing that you don't have any object or property of value, else you would have sold it to start your clinic, rather than come here." She eyed him; he shook his head, beginning to sink back in disappointment that she might change her mind. "You do, however, have an asset that the women I work with, do not."

He said immediately, before he'd caught more than a glimpse of the idea, "But I can't sell either of them." Aside from the fact that he'd free them rather than that, if he _could_ – "They're arena-surrenders, I _can't_ sell them."

Her smile softened. "Yourself, Merlin," she reminded him. "Your value stands… probably, the highest of any single male in the kingdom. More than enough to cover your surety. So the only question really is, how much do you need?"

He was ready to name the sum discussed between the three of them, but what came from his mouth was a more hesitant, "What would you suggest?"

Morgana found a fresh sheet of parchment, inked her quill.

First, a place to rent. _We'll come back to that_ , she said. Then, furnishings, supplies – he was going to want to be prepared, and not depend upon conjuration, at least until he got a better idea of what to expect, from his patients and from himself. He agreed; it had been his thought as well. He wouldn't want to waste his time or that of either of his slaves, searching market stalls for herbs or roots or other ingredients, so she'd give him the name of a few suppliers who could deliver in bulk, to any specifications or amount or schedule.

She unrolled a map of the city on her desk, putting markers onto the places where the other physicians and apothecaries did business. He wouldn't want to encroach upon the territory of any of the former, but it might be good to be close to one of the latter, to refer his patients to. And if he meant to serve the poorer peoples… She'd send him to a woman she knew, who owned several properties in the areas of interest; she was sure together they would find something that suited Merlin.

"Thank you so much," he said, thrilled.

Morgana gave him another smile, and bent to her calculations, spending some moments scratching figures in silence, before turning the paper to face him. "This is the amount of the loan I'll offer. Based upon that and the comparable expected income after expenses for yourself and your two slaves, I'll give you a year's time to pay it back, in monthly installments with this rate of interest – here's where we take into account youth and inexperience, I do apologize – this is your payment, due today's date every month."

He glanced over the numbers, taking enough time to make sure they'd been done properly – not that he expected her to take advantage, but…

"This should be a four?" he said, touching one numeral in her fine handwriting. "Not nine?"

She barely glanced at it, but her green eyes on him were sharper, somehow. "Yes, my mistake." Flipping open another leather-bound folio, she flattened another sheet between them, one that was already written on, by herself – or more probably by one of her clerks, he guessed. "Standard contract," she explained. "You can read the terms before you sign, if you wish, there's discounts if you pay early or above the monthly requirement, penalties for the reverse, and so on. If for any reason you lose your ability to repay the loan, it can be renegotiated."

"What does that part mean?" he said, frowning as he tried to make sense of the document in seconds.

"Oh, if – you catch an illness and have to close your clinic for a week or two, you can petition to lower that month's payment and recalculate the remaining months. That sort of thing."

Morgana didn't move then, or speak, and his self-consciousness heightened, affecting his focus. He tried to read and then had to re-read –

It was not _such_ a large sum, and they had a whole year to pay it off. He had other ideas too, about approaching the Watch to offer better care for a lower cost, for the soldiers, that would be steady business and income.

"All right," he said, feeling a bit giddy.

She repeated – almost eagerly – "All right. I'll fill in our specifics… sign my name… and you sign yours."

He took the quill, warm from her hand, dipped for the ink, and signed boldly. _Merlin._

Morgana sanded the page and rolled it expertly, handing it to him like a baton. "Take this downstairs and they'll give you your sum in gold." The smile was archly satisfied, and he fumbled the scroll a bit to take the hand she extended to him.

"Thank you," he said. "Really. You must hear this all the time, but you have no idea what this means to –"

"I look forward to doing business with you again, Merlin," she said, emphasizing his name a bit too deliberately – but still smiling. "Have a good morning."

"You as well." Almost he bowed on his way out before remembering – he didn't have to.

And almost he tripped on the stairs, in his hurry and excitement to show his two new friends, this proof of his worth and the expected security of their future.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival did not consider himself a man who got nervous. All his life, he had a pretty clear idea of what to expect in any given situation – and he believed he could take it, good bad or indifferent.

But he was uneasy. Because he didn't know what to expect, anymore – for his boy-master, in this society of women. His experiences in the border-wars, while they'd honed instincts and reactions, didn't seem immediately translatable to the civilian life of the capital. The terrain was different, the adversaries were different, the method of conflict was different, and he was untrained.

He and Gwaine stood in the lobby of the money-lender's building, scouting exits and vantage points and potential threats, all while standing still, ignoring the pull of damaged yet healing skin on his neck under the high collar of his tunic. He wished one of them, at least, had been allowed to go with Merlin – they were uneducated, but he was inexperienced, and maybe it would balance out into a good deal.

Pretty nearly an hour they waited.

They didn't communicate verbally; they didn't have to, to share observations of the room and the people, the waiting and weather, the few other people who entered on one errand or another. Gwaine showed great restraint, keeping quiet so long, but he probably assumed as Percival did, that their every aspect would be watched and remembered and analyzed, reflecting back on Merlin for good or ill.

So they simply stood still, and looked around, and said nothing.

And heard Merlin before they saw him, clattering down the enclosed stair so clumsy in his haste that Percival thought for an instant the threat of throwing had been made good on. But the boy appeared, grinning from ear to ear, a scroll uncannily similar to that which contained his citizenship paperwork, hidden in the tiny apartment, held up in his hand.

 _We got it_ , he mouthed, angling for the nearest clerk.

Gwaine shot Percival a grin as if to say, _See? I told you_.

He followed his friend to join Merlin at the desk as the boy unrolled his scroll for that clerk's scrutiny. She scratched a shorter note on a smaller sheet, handed it over her shoulder to the slave behind her without looking. He took it, and slipped through the door behind him.

"It will be just one moment," the woman – thirty-ish and with brown hair pulled back into a no-nonsense braid – told them.

Merlin nodded, retreating a few steps. "We've got it," he repeated to Gwaine and Percival, blue eyes sparkling with excitement. "And I've got someone we can see about a place – a good idea about where – and vendors we can contact for supply delivery."

That would not have been something Percival minded, running errands and fetching and carrying burdens, but… he said nothing. Gwaine seemed enthusiastic as well.

Until the slave reappeared, carrying a small chest – stiffly, and with bulging arm muscles – and set it on the corner of the desk with great care, before backing to his station by the door.

"Sir." The clerk rose to her feet, beckoning them. She opened the hinged arched lid of the cask, old dark wood bound with blackened iron, ring-grips on either side. Inside three canvas bags tied with twine rested upon a lining of similar fabric. Bending down behind the desk, she lifted a set of scales, then opened a drawer for marked iron weights, to demonstrate the correct amount.

More than what Percival had expected – or Gwaine, judging by his troubled glance.

Merlin signed for reception of funds with a flourish, undaunted, then closed the lid of the chest and locked it with the key the clerk gave him.

"Good luck," she said expressionlessly, turning her attention back to other paperwork even as she sank back to her seat and lifted the scales down behind the desk.

"Thank you," Merlin answered cheerfully.

Gwaine took hold of one handle experimentally, and Percival rounded Merlin – who was tucking the cord attached to the key around his neck for safekeeping – to take the other ring-grip. He was taller than Gwaine, but had no doubt they could carry the weight together smoothly.

"I don't like the idea of strutting across the city with this thing out in the open," Gwaine murmured, as they stepped away from the clerk's desk. "It's so _obvious_."

Merlin slowed and glanced at Percival, who gave him a grimace of agreement. "What can we do, though?" he asked, in the same low voice so as not to be overheard. "We can't share it out and carry it in our pockets."

That was true as well. It would be a highly irregular proceeding to conduct here in the lobby, and just as ridiculous when and if they found a place to rent, to turn out their pockets until they re-collected that sum.

"What about taking back alleys to get where we're going?" Merlin proposed uncertainly.

Gwaine shook his head. "Better to keep to populated routes – thieves aren't tempted as much, with an audience." And Gwaine would know.

"What about fitting you two out to look more like guards?" Merlin said, the joy of success draining slowly towards the grim reality of responsibility. "Some armor?"

Percival wasn't satisfied with that; they didn't have anything like the time required to teach Merlin how to conjure something like that effectively. Gwaine probably had the same thought.

"A good pair of swords?" he suggested with a grin, shaking his hair back as they passed over the building's threshold.

"Slaves can't be armed except on or inside their owner's property," Merlin said, sounding dissatisfied himself.

"What about our evening practice?" Percival said, surprised.

Merlin grimaced. "That's only a few paces distant from property I rent, and the Watch rarely patrols my neighborhood, and if they did I could dismiss those swords in a blink. What about a staff? That's not actually a weapon…"

Percival shook his head as they loitered in the crossroads square, undecided. Already they were drawing attention, with the chest of gold. "A staff needs two hands to wield it properly; we'd have to drop the gold to defend it. Then it would be more vulnerable, and we wouldn't be mobile anymore."

"What if just you carried it, and Gwaine and I had staves?" Merlin said, concern edging toward anxiety.

"Knives," Gwaine said, and Percival found himself agreeing, even before he and Merlin finished turning toward their long-haired friend. "Easy to make, easy to hide, easy to use in close quarters if we have to."

"If we get caught –" Merlin hesitated.

Percival smiled. "We won't."

Merlin's response was to lift his hands; Gwaine caught his wrist, glancing about at the audience flowing about them. "Not here. Let's head wherever we need to go next, and look for a private corner."

Merlin nodded; Gwaine shifted his grip and they followed their boy-master. Percival would have smiled at the change if he wasn't too busy scowling in an intimidating way at anyone who showed their cask too much curiosity. The quality of Merlin's clothes, the way he held himself straight; he'd grown up a good deal in the space of a week, if Percival was any judge. No matter that the clothing was conjured, and the boy's gait would always be too loose and careless for a soldier's.

His step faltered as they turned the first corner, and he glanced over his shoulder at the two of them questioningly, before heading into a side-street so narrow it was almost an alley, little more than a place to dump rubbish and catch rainwater running off the roofs. He and Gwaine with the gold-chest between them, could touch either wall easily; seven or eight paces down, a second such alley dead-ended into the first at a blind angle.

No one was in sight. As Gwaine and Merlin murmured over specifications – length of blade, double or single-edged, type of hilt - Percival tipped his head back to study shuttered windows and rooftop edges. There was a flutter at the side of his vision like a crow's wing – gone when he turned his head as if the bird had taken flight in the other direction, over the roof.

"All that doesn't matter as much as us getting a move on," Percival interrupted. Speed was their best deterrent at present, since they couldn't go openly armed. There were always people who would act rashly, if given too much time to contemplate a tempting opportunity.

Merlin nodded, moving his open hands against each other. Gwaine took the knife their master handed him to slit his conjured shirt open almost to his navel, tucking his new knife inside it, in his belt at his right hip; he was better at left-handed combat than Percival was.

The knife intended for him was a ghost in Merlin's palm when Percival's instincts jerked his attention away.

He was used to fighting in the forests. He was used to that moment when all wildlife froze in apprehensive silence and _warning_. There was no moment of silence, not with the constant noise of busy streets. But there was _something_.

Percival spun, simultaneously sinking into a crouch and lifting his free arm like a shield –

Glimpsing far above them a woman's face, a black hood, a curtain of long blonde curls as she spun away from the rooftop –

And something slammed into him, striking his upraised forearm with agony, then numbness. A great weight that tumbled heavily past and off him as he staggered and dropped his arm – but not the chest.

Gwaine did, however – his grip broken as a rock the size of his head rolled down his shoulder. He stumbled back against the opposite wall of the alley, down to one knee, blood and a blank look on his face – though not fully unconsciousness.

Behind them, two figures in black – trousers, jackets, turbans and veils – blocked the alley from the street. Advancing swiftly and threateningly with their own bared blades and communicating every intent to use them, Percival was as certain of that as he was that they were men.

So he hurled his own first.

Mindful of the possibility of body armor beneath clothing, he sent it straight to the right eye of the figure on the left, leaving the other to Gwaine, fairly confident of that outcome.

Percival didn't wait to watch his quarry fall, but swung to see three more in similar disguising garb round the corner from the second alley. Between them, Merlin faced the new threat, palms out and ready – but they were faster and more brutal.

The first threw a fist without hesitation, full-strength and straight into the boy's face. Merlin's head snapped back and his knees buckled.

After the single knife cast, Percival's right arm was dead at his side – even the thought of movement sent spikes of pain up his shoulder. He stepped over and around Merlin – down but not out – swinging the heavy cask in his left hand with all his might.

The first man was not expecting that. Percival felt the shock as it took him under the chin with such force that it broke his neck.

Letting the strong-box's weight spin him around, he took another light step, lifting it again as he came around. Square and hard into the second's chest with a deep grunt of expelled air – knocking him back winded at least and hopefully with several cracked ribs.

His momentum broken, Percival lifted one leg to kick past the third's half-sword, throwing him off-balance for the moment he needed to force his injured body into submission to his will. His right arm caught the other side of the cask – he welcomed and absorbed and _used_ the pain – and handled the strong-box as a shield to block the other's blade-strike. But his arm wouldn't take another such blow.

Bellowing rage and defiance, he lifted the cask, smashing it hard into his opponent's face – he toppled limply backward into stillness.

"Percival!" Merlin called in warning, his voice audibly affected by that punch to the face – but he wasn't giving up.

He dropped the cask by Merlin's knee as the boy tried to push himself upright off the wall – glanced to see only Gwaine on his feet and no one appearing at the alley entrance to raise alarm.

"Knife," he said tersely, holding out his hand and trying to ignore the pain-tremors. He felt the hilt form between their palms, and snapped his body into his cast the second Merlin released.

The last of their attackers flung up his arms and fell on his face, fifteen paces down the alley.

"Oh lords, oh lords," Merlin gulped, shuffling back from the nearest corpse.

Percival was aware, now that the fight was over, that he was sweating and trembling, that his right arm _ached_. He glanced up – there was no one in sight on either rooftop – before examining the damage done to his young master. Merlin's lip was split and blood trickled to his chin; the side of his jaw was already beginning to swell, but his eyes – blue, wide, and horrified – were clear and focused.

Gwaine, on the other hand, weaved unsteadily even taking three steps to join them.

"What do we do?" Merlin worried aloud. "If we report this – we shouldn't have had weapons, we'll get in trouble – they shouldn't have used weapons –"

Percival moved to meet Gwaine, white and grim. There was blood in his hair, and Percival couldn't tell, in the indirect light of the alley and because Gwaine's eyes were dark in color anyway, whether there was any further indication of more serious injury.

"Y'r arm?" he slurred.

Percival could lift it and move his fingers – which was all that was needed, really - and proved it before turning back to Merlin.

"If you want my advice," he said quietly, "conjure some rubbish to cover the bodies, and we get out of here. We can stop again somewhere else to clean up, but we keep going like nothing happened. Deny anything anyone saw."

Merlin, still fearful and uncertain – questioning what was right, what was best, what was expedient – public perception and legal outcome uncertain – switched his gaze to Gwaine, who said, "By your leave, sir."

"Okay," Merlin said nervously. "Okay."

Conjuration was magic, Percival knew, that took both concentration and strength. Merlin never faltered, hands swiftly describing the dimensions of, not rubbish, but panels of thin wood to fit over and hide the bodies, like a set of large boxes or crates that had been stored or abandoned, each one taking less than minute.

Then, instead of returning to the street, Merlin led them further down the alley, around that turn, then a second and third, before they stopped again.

Conjured water and a washing-cloth to clean blood from Merlin's face; his lip was scabbing and the bruise wouldn't completely form for another few hours, Percival thought. His forearm was still achy-numb, but Merlin didn't think either bone was broken; he conjured a smear of salve and a bandage to protect the skin scraped off and bracers to hide that, to minimize swelling and stabilize it so Percival could carry on carrying the cask.

Gwaine, they were both more worried about. A bit slow, of step and speech, and still blank-pale, but the blood clotted on his scalp, and more conjured water rinsed his hair.

Merlin hesitated, then emptied the little wooden dish of washing water in a flinging motion, brought it right back up to offer to Gwaine again, brimming full of darker liquid. "It'll help with the pain," he said. "Are you sure we shouldn't just go home?"

Gwaine drank; Percival answered. "Maybe someone knew to be waiting for us, somehow. And maybe it was just a gang of thieves –" _slaves of the blonde citizen he'd glimpsed?_ – "picking at random from folks leaving Morgana's a little heavier for gold than when they walked in. Either way, I think we're better off turning this into property and goods sooner rather than later. Less risk of –" _a second attempt? but they'd killed all five men who had attacked_ – "something… else happening."

Merlin again looked to Gwaine for his agreement, which Percival was actually glad to see; if Gwaine said, _Home_ , he'd get all three of them and the gold there safely, and keep them secure, or die trying.

But Gwaine nodded. Their clothing was still in decent order; Percival tucked both retrieved knives beneath his tunic, and they marched.

It might've been Percival's imagination – or heightened suspicion – that the property owner Morgana had recommended, a sharp-nosed woman with red curls and forty years under her sizeable belt, was surprised to see the three of them, more than she ought to be.

Not that the young-and-only male citizen now famous throughout Camelot, _would_ come to her. But that he _had_ …

She covered it well, immediately taking to the street to show them a few places that might suit the needs of a medical clinic. Gwaine was left in her locked office – dim and quiet and restful - with the cask, and Percival strode behind the agent and Merlin, and _wondered_.

If it was more than a straightforward robbery.

Why, was an easy question to answer. Of course there would be resentment and jealousy. For every woman eager and willing to take Merlin to her bed for the sake of passing his magic to her daughter, was a woman who'd rather see the young man bowed and bent in servitude. But whether, and _who_ … was a problem yet to solve.

His sisters were female. His mother, and Merlin's mother, and the princess. Was he becoming one of those men who hated and mistrusted all women? Percival hoped not. He hoped he wouldn't forget the countless girls dead in the arena because they couldn't kill fast enough, and their mothers. Countless others wounded or crippled or raped – or near enough that the fear never really left them, turning into that same hatred and mistrust.

Not all women were good; not all men were good, either. He hoped he'd never stop believing that some were, and deserved better than what they had.

They all deserved better, he thought. They deserved _fair_.

But _deserving_ … and _getting_ … were two different things.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The longer Gwen delayed choosing, the more significant her choice became… even if only to her. But she couldn't shake the feeling, it was _inherently_ significant to more than her.

The palace complex included select stables with a training paddock and exercise track. More than one balcony, shaded and screened now against the setting sun, overlooked the equine grounds, and Gwen had sequestered herself in one, in search of some external peace, at least.

More of Taliesin's writings had caught her attention and memory. Hints that magic used to be different – broader in application, but limited to fewer users. She wondered if the odd legend of the spell on the book itself, once had been possible. And whether it would be again, when the balance righted itself, as predicted. Whether that interpretation was correct, if prophecy came true at all, without people to believe in it…

More passages on the symbols of cup and sword. One for healing and one for wounding – and yet other passages spoke of a payment of death if the cup restored life, and the sword that brought unity and peace. Life sacrificed for immortality in both cases, though Gwen was not clear on _how_.

She sighed. Through the screen she could observe without being seen herself, and who should be in the training paddock below putting a glossy roan filly through her paces, but Arthur and Lancelot.

It felt a bit odd to her, to watch without their knowledge – any man, and especially these two, one of whom she would take to bed. It felt a bit odd, to think that they might be forming a friendship through this shared experience. They couldn't be more different, and she couldn't bring herself to choose.

With Lancelot it would be literally effortless. He would meet her every need, all day and all night, no matter what, and count it all privilege.

With Arthur, she suspected it would be complicated. It already was.

"You delay," her mother's voice said behind her, mildly sardonic.

She startled, looking around – settled as the queen sauntered onto the balcony to peer through the screen's carved design at the two lords below and beyond – and sighed, rising from her chair. "I know."

"Guinevere, it's really not that hard of a decision," Nimueh remarked. "Choose one. If his paces don't suit you…" the sky-blue silk of her shoulder-baring gown rippled as she shrugged. "Wait a month to be sure you've not caught his child, then send for the other. I assure you, as long as you're careful to know the sire when you are got with child, their mothers won't mind."

Gwen thought, Arthur's mother might. She might _understand_ , but she might also mind her son being used so. She said softly, "Mother, they're not animals. They have feelings, too."

Nimueh snorted in delicate amusement. "Have you exchanged history for poetry, lately, without my knowledge? That is the trouble with males. They cannot control those feelings and urges, so you must. We must."

Gwen hummed noncommittally. Neither of her two suitors had sired other children yet – possibly because their mothers had both anticipated this situation of Gwen's choice, years ago. She wondered if either was more likely to give her a daughter than the other – Arthur's father had sired only a son, but she had no idea of Lancelot's sire and his other children.

"What if it's a boy," she mused. Histories after Blythewin and Taliesin had been quiet on royal siblings aside from the heir.

Nimueh turned from the screen to give her a sympathetic smirk. "That's not such a terrible complication, either. It can be handled."

Gwen felt the same uncertain shiver she'd experienced to hear her mother contemplating bedding a boy barely out of childhood. Privately she'd long lamented the lack of confidence between them; now she was not sure she was ready to hear Nimueh's secrets, even if one day she might face similar situations and decisions.

"Indeed," she said, keeping her voice studiously neutral.

"You had an older brother," Nimueh said. Her lips still curled, but her bright blue eyes were sharp in a way Gwen had seen before – but rarely directed at her. And almost, she lost composure over the shock of that revelation. Whatever she let slip, or whatever she hid, it seemed to satisfy her mother, who went on. "He died when you were still a baby, I never thought it important to mention til now… when you are considering motherhood."

"What was his name?" Gwen asked. Her throat felt thick; it made her voice sound husky. "Who was his sire?"

"His name was Elyan." Memory drew Nimueh's gaze far away, but there was no grief in it. "His sire… was your sire."

"The blacksmith?" Gwen said incredulously. She wished she knew his name, but wasn't sure if it would anger her mother to ask. "I thought you said – he didn't have your invitation…"

"When you were conceived, no," Nimueh corrected, and shrugged again. "I'd taken him as a lover years earlier, but he gave me a boy, so I had no more use for him. Except in the forge, of course."

Gwen turned away to the screen, hooking her fingertips through the carved openings. In the paddock below, Arthur and Lancelot side by side rubbed the filly down, inspecting her after her exercise.

Her father had been the queen's lover. They'd had a son together. Gwen wondered, with a sense that her thoughts were beyond her control, if the blacksmith had seen much of his little son, loved him, inquired after the queen's plans for him. If he'd had feelings for Nimueh, one way or the other, that had driven him to take her again forcibly, conceiving Gwen without Nimueh's permission. And then the queen had executed her former lover, for that.

"Lords," she muttered feelingly. The pulse in her temples threatening to increase to an ache, and she closed her eyes. "What about – after I was born? Did you ever take another lover, think about other children?"

"Of course I've had lovers," Nimueh said. "But you know better than anyone, the value of discretion for women in royal positions. As for other children… there are ways of preventing that. I didn't need them, after I had you for my heir."

 _I. Didn't. Need. Them._

 _There are ways…_

She didn't want to know. She didn't want to know.

Gwen didn't want to think about all this anymore. She wanted to choose Lancelot and uphold every single law and never consider any new ones. Then she would be safe, wouldn't she?

No. That wasn't a guarantee. How could she rule according to other's consciences, even those of her own ancestors? Then again, what right did she have to make changes that the majority of her citizens didn't agree with? But citizens who were only a strictly-regulated _part_ of the population… by necessity, she'd always been taught…

"Not too long, now," Nimueh said, and Gwen heard the double meaning in her mother's light warning. "Dinner will be served soon. Choose, or I'll send these two home and gift you that black-haired boy, citizen or no."

Listening to the silk-slipper footfalls of her mother's retreat, Gwen opened her eyes to watch Arthur and Lancelot leaving the paddock, in step and in conversation, leading the wearily docile filly back toward the stable.

Flip a coin. Ask everyone she met for a day, from slaves to secretaries, and count tally-marks. Set them a race – on foot, on horseback, over an obstacle-course…

Was that the coward's way, leaving it up to chance? Or perhaps, if prophecy was a thing that came true, destiny would take a hand if she surrendered control of her choice… Was she brave enough to face what would come of that? Was she foolish enough to fight against it, if it was time to happen anyway?

How could she know for sure?

 **A/N: Oh, yeah, there's this: the loan is according to the book's plot, and so is the fact of the attack – though I can't remember whether Anthony/Lackey connected the two like I did…**


	6. The Challenge

**Chapter 6: The Challenge**

Merlin heard Gwaine before he heard Percival.

Past midnight, and dark but for the conjured oil lamp on the bare-swept hearth, the outside air he sought from his seat on the open threshold the only relief from the stifling interior of the apartment – though the sensation might have been due more to his relentless thoughts, than the season.

And if it wasn't the heat making Gwaine snarly, he had other excuses. "Yes, I'm awake. Yes, I'm alive. Yes, my head still hurts like a sonuva lord, dammit!"

Merlin dropped his gaze from the stars and rubbed his fingers together; his jaw still hurt. The soup they'd eaten for dinner was both cheap and good for all of them, more or less injured. Gwaine more, and him less; he didn't suppose he had any reason to complain, compared to either of his companions.

Percival could move quietly for a big man, Merlin was still learning; he was standing in the doorway before Merlin realized he hadn't returned to his mattress after checking Gwaine. Merlin shuffled sideways, pulling his knees up to take his legs from Percival's way; with his back to the doorframe, the former soldier slid down to rest next to him.

"Are you all right?" Percival asked.

In the dark of the street and the single-wick lighting of the apartment behind them, Merlin could see a corner of unshaven jaw, elbow and knee. He noticed further, that Percival was supporting his right wrist in his left hand – just a bruise, Merlin thought, rather than a break, but it was an extensive one, and would take a while for the damaged muscles and skin to heal fully.

"I should ask you that," he said. "Your arm?"

Percival grunted noncommittally. Merlin cupped his hands together, concentrating – objects at ambient temperature were easiest, but it was possible – he shivered from the effort as ice formed in his palms, pleasantly cool on his skin. It was the work of a moment to conjure a swath of silk to wrap it in; he offered it to Percival two-handed.

"It'll help with the swelling," he said. "In the morning I'll put some arnica and aloe on it, before we begin work at the clinic."

Percival adjusted his position to cradle the ice along one forearm, and rest the other in it. "About that. I wonder if it's a good idea for Gwaine to stay here and rest, with what's left of that chest of gold."

It was more gold than Merlin had intended to ask for. And, if could probably have been better disguised, fairly easily. But he couldn't see himself even mentioning it to Morgana, much less implying more. If it wasn't intentional, he'd insult her; if it was… he had bigger problems.

"I thought about that," he said. "If we put the chest against the side wall, I can conjure a false wall in front of it – no one should realize it, even if they search. That way if anything happens, Gwaine won't have to fight on his own, just claim it isn't here."

Percival huffed, a big deep sound from his broad chest. "You're unexpected, Merlin, do you know that? Full of surprises."

"Gaius used to say that," Merlin said, and the ache of missing his old friend tightened his throat.

"I wish I'd known him," Percival said contemplatively, shifting his arm against the ice-filled silk.

Merlin only jerked his head in acknowledgement and wrapped his arms around his knees. He felt again as he had the first night after the arena – the comfortable and familiar was all gone, his new world was hard and ruthless, and there were ways in which he was completely unprepared for it.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "About today. That it happened. That you had to – do all that – for me."

"For us," Percival said mildly. "Gwaine and I thought, one of us should talk to you, about that. I think he'd be better suited, but –"

"But he's got a concussion?" Merlin filled in wryly.

"Mm." Percival breathed twice, in and out, deep and calm. Then he added, "Some soldiers keep count. Men they've killed. They compare, they argue… I never did."

Merlin reflected, he would have had to add four to it, if he did. That to Gwaine's one, and after a rock had been dropped on the big man. He realized that it made him feel safe, to have Percival on his side.

"I never asked Gwaine either," Percival went on. "We'd both been in service a couple of years when we met, but… It might surprise you to know, for all his chatter, Gwaine is not a man given to boasting."

It didn't surprise him, actually.

"And you. You didn't even – exactly – fight us, in the arena. You've never been in trouble like that before, have you?" Percival's tone was not unsympathetic, nor was it condescending. "You've never killed. Today, I was glad you didn't have to. Gwaine and I – we're probably not good for much else, and he'd tell you the same."

Merlin began to protest, but Percival disregarded him serenely.

"We did what we did – and we'll keep doing what we do – so that you can do what you do, in peace." He nodded and moved his arm again; the silk wrapping was dripping as the ice melted.

"You really think we'll have that?" Merlin said, a bit wistfully. Much of the optimism he'd felt that morning securing Morgana's loan had been drained by fear, and by exhaustion. "Peace and freedom, just to… make a living, and help people?"

Percival shrugged. "Life is life. It seems to me, it's always something going wrong."

"A series of obstacles," Merlin said.

"And we help each other over them."

Merlin hummed, pleased in a tired way with the big man's simple philosophy. "You think we're over this one? I mean, five of those men that attacked us are dead, but the one on the roof dropping rocks got away."

"In my experience…" Percival shifted to glance over his shoulder, through the doorway into the dimly-lit apartment, as if checking on Gwaine. "People who break the law, usually don't call the Watch on other people who break the law, more successfully."

Merlin waited – it seemed to him that there was more to be said, but Percival didn't say it. "What do they do?"

The big man inhaled deeply. "They let it go, or they try again."

All of Merlin's experiences in the poor neighborhood leaned his expectations toward, _let it go_. He supposed it might depend on whether those men belonged to anyone, and were following someone else's directions. Whether the loss of five slaves or associates was a deterrent or an incentive.

"So what do we do?" he asked.

Percival shrugged. "We be careful. Watch our backs, go nowhere alone, stay on the law's good side. Wait and see – and in the meantime, go about our business."

Merlin's mouth curled toward a smile, in the darkness. "Our business will be some very hard work, for a few days. Cleaning."

"Lords," Percival said laconically. "We better get to bed, then."

Merlin dismissed the cloth and the ice, which would leave the big man's hairy arm cool, but dry. In return, he let Percival pull him one-handed to his feet; he closed the door behind them, and this time, his wool-stuffed mattress was welcoming.

He squirmed into a comfortable position, hearing Percival on the other side of Gwaine doing the same, and drifted off toward sleep making other plans.

A lock for the door. A trip to the clothier's for some real garments to ease that small drain on his magic every day. In a few days, communication – with the princess, with the Watch, perhaps with some of the citizens who owned the largest number of slaves. Perhaps if he could make some friends – or just allies – do some favors, he'd be in a better position to resist anyone who might consider an attack…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen gazed at the candle on her desk in front of her, the wick tickling her cupped palm, stubbornly unlit. An exercise in patience and concentration, and she was sure she would need both, as soon as the two lords appeared – neither one before the other, she'd instructed the slave who guarded her door. To be fair.

A brief knock heralded the opening of the door; she blinked up at the stolid face of her guard, surprised that both lords could arrive so swiftly.

"A messenger, my lady," he said with respectful neutrality. "From the citizen Merlin. Would you prefer to speak with him after your appointment with my lords, or have him return another time?"

Gwen shoved the candle back. She wasn't sure what state of mind she'd be in, after this interview, but… "Is either of the lords here, yet?"

"No, my lady."

"Send the messenger in, then." She folded her fingers together and sat up straighter, intrigued. She'd heard rumors, in the ten days since the arena, of the unexpected male citizen and his two arena-slaves. She found she was glad that he'd taken her offer for assistance – that he'd remembered it at all, poor boy, in his condition – but of course that might change, based on the request. Of further interest was the fact that, instead of coming himself, he'd sent –

The man who sauntered into the room took Gwen a bit by surprise. Dark blue trousers and boots, neat and well-fitting, white shirt belted at the waist. His hair hung as long as his jaw, a bit longer in the back; his gait was so easy and relaxed it was almost arrogant, head up and dark eyes a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Quite different from the slaves she was used to, but – oh. She remembered Arthur's voice filled with consternation, watching the match she had neither stomach nor heart for – _He picked soldiers_.

He stopped at a respectful distance – halfway between her and the door, where the guard-slave waited, blank as the wall – and dropped to one knee before tucking the other under him, knees slightly apart and hands clasped behind him. Proper, without being obsequious. Open, as few slaves were, as though he knew very well what could be done to him, yet didn't care – nor held their differences in status and control against her. Interesting. She wondered if maybe it was the effect of having a male owner, or…

"I have never met a soldier," she remarked.

His grin was undeniably dashing – he probably knew that, and used it - but it only made her want to laugh and shake her head. "And I, my lady, have never met a princess."

"Congratulations on your survival," she said. "I trust your brands are healing well."

"Yes, thank you." His eyes lit and his thick dark brows rose fractionally. "As it turns out, my master has some training in medicine – and no small skill, if you ask me."

"In medicine," Gwen repeated, surprised.

"Which is what brings me here to you." He spoke slowly, waiting for her indication of permission to continue.

She nodded, then added, "You may get up, if you prefer to stand."

His head cocked slightly, before he rocked back onto his toes and rose smoothly. "For a fact, it is a bit hard on the knees after a while."

Gwen actually snorted in shocked amusement. "Treason," she told him, a warning with a smile.

He was unperturbed. "Truth," he said mildly.

She did shake her head, then. There were plenty of women in her acquaintance that would take offense and order him whipped – but she found she didn't mind him relaxed rather than stiffly tense or carefully polite or guardedly bitter. "What is your master's message?"

"Merlin plans to open a medical clinic." He named a district Gwen could well believe in need of such a business.

"He seeks a loan?" Gwen kept her face neutral, but set her teeth. A small sum she could probably gift any citizen that came asking, but for actual sponsorship, she couldn't simply say yes without paying considerable attention to details. Attention she didn't really have to spare, these days.

"He has one – he's rented a place and has ordered supplies." The slave-soldier took half a step forward in his sincerity – which also took her by surprise. He _believed_ in the venture, more than simply recognizing the advantages to his master able to afford to feed him. He wasn't delivering a rote communication, he was speaking his own words, and wanted to convince her. "What he would like to request from you, is occasional and scheduled access to your library."

"My library?" she said, uncomprehending.

"The – royal library, here at the palace. Merlin reckons he's decent with common ailments and minor injuries, but there's a lot he figures he doesn't know, and wants to learn."

Gwen sat back in her chair. When was the last time she'd heard of any male showing interest in intellectual pursuits? They did as they were told, and left thinking to the females, and now… _wants to learn_. She couldn't help thinking of Arthur, sprawled in a window-seat, golden in the afternoon sun, fascinated with the book in his hands.

Were more men like that? Capable and desirous of thinking beyond base physical necessities, comforts and lusts, the last order and the next one?

"What's your name?" she said slowly.

That grin flashed again. "Gwaine, m'lady, at your service."

"And your fellow?"

"Percival." Gwaine's dark eyes twinkled, inviting her to laugh with him at his joke. "He's the big one, I'm the pretty one."

Her lips twitched. "And the humble one too, I suppose?"

"No, that's Merlin."

She held his gaze; he held hers, serious through their light exchange. "Is he."

Strong and fast and clever in the arena – which seemed to surprise even him. Called humble by his slave, yet fancied himself at least a student-physician. Dressed in the poorest of clothing, yet managed to support two extra people _and_ secure a loan.

"Who holds his surety?" she asked, curious about collateral, but not rude enough to ask the slave of the citizen in question.

"Morgana."

His frank friendliness cooled somewhat; she wondered why, even as she hid her own reaction. Neither Morgana nor her twin was known for altruism in business. So why would she –

"Your Highness." His chin was down, his eyebrows up. The smile tentative and small, rather than wide and assured. "He's a good-hearted kid. He's had it rough – and worse lately – all he's asking for is fair play. A chance to be a loyal and productive citizen."

And in a week, he'd somehow earned the loyalty of a border soldier and a criminal – maybe two of them. Oh, _lords_ … she controlled her reaction with an effort, feeling a bit faint at an unexpected thought – perhaps a corroboration of her decision?

 _Healer and killer…_

She probably would have agreed anyway, but now… "I would be pleased to allow him the use of the library," she said. "Let me know when – I'll alert our records custodian and arrange for them to meet. She'll be the one coordinating his visits as well as guiding or advising the materials for his study."

And of course the custodian would keep Gwen apprised as well. She was often in the library; one or two coincidental encounters ought not arouse his suspicions, and she could form her own opinion as to his character. Judge for herself if his victory in the arena signaled the redressing of Taliesin's anticipated balance, after all.

"Thank you, my lady," Gwaine said, bowing as he retreated, but keeping his brilliant grin on her. "He'll be thrilled – and relieved – to hear, and I promise you, you won't regret –"

Behind him, the door-slave alerted, turned and reached to pull the door open. He didn't hesitate to interrupt Gwaine, announcing blandly to Gwen, "Their lordships are here, my lady."

Gwaine turned also, sidestepping to remove himself from their path as first Lancelot, then Arthur entered. Lancelot noted Gwaine, but passed without any interchange, while Arthur – Gwen was interested to observe – seemed to recognize this one of the only male citizen's slaves. Arthur looked at Gwen, then back at the slave as Gwaine made a last indiscriminate bow to the room and ducked out. As he followed Lancelot closer to her desk as Gwen rose, the look on his face made her think that Arthur wanted to question Gwaine's business here – but knew it wasn't his place.

"My lady," Lancelot said in greeting, inclining his head respectfully. He'd never once by word or look referred to their moment of intimate contact on the balcony, since that night, which she appreciated; it minimized her tendency to feel awkward when she shouldn't.

"Thank you both for coming," she began, keeping the desk between her and the two.

The slave closed the door behind himself; Gwen took a deep breath and released it, re-directing the focus of her attention.

"I know you are aware of the real reason for your invitations to spend time here, in the royal palace of Camelot. The queen wishes the line of succession extended one generation further, and the two of you have been decided upon by Her Majesty and myself, as the likeliest sires for my heir."

She realized she was pacing the rug behind her desk, and drew herself up to face them, lacing her fingers and squeezing to stop them rubbing together. Both young men stood at silent respectful attention – _so_ different.

Gwen knew she didn't have to explain her reasoning for her decision to them – and doing so might actually affect the outcome. Lancelot would not think to question it anyway, and she rather thought Arthur would completely _understand_ – afterwards.

"I'm sure you have also wondered at the delay," she continued. "And let me assure you, the problem is not with you, but with me. When it comes to it, the truth is, I simply can't decide."

 _The truth is, I'm scared I'll make the wrong decision, for selfish reasons, either way._

She'd considered broaching the suggestion of test-beddings, to assure them that she had more respect for them than to use them so, and decided not to. They were not unintelligent, surely they realized such a choice was within reason for her to make – they might even infer that she'd chosen _this_ , as an alternative.

"Therefore, I'm invoking an age-old right of a princess to set a task for her suitors." Never mind that it had once been for the prize of _marriage_ … Never mind Nimueh's amusement when Gwen had informed her, earlier. "I wish for each of you to seek an object of rare value and return it here to me, to assist my judgment."

What they'd chosen and why, would surely say much about what they thought of her, and themselves. She hoped it would show whether she was right, or wrong, about the prophecy and timing.

Lancelot appeared courteously attentive, if not eager, but Arthur was wearing a blank emotionless mask; she couldn't tell what he thought.

"Laws must be followed, of course, in your quests," she said. "It is not a race – I will only decide once you've both returned and I have a chance to evaluate your offerings."

Silence. So weighted with significance Gwen fancied she could hear herself breathe.

"I am aware that this keeps you from duties at home – I plan to write to your mothers and explain my choice, I am sure they will understand and forgive your extended absence."

"Of course, my lady," Lancelot said with a slight bow. "It is an honor to perform any service you require. May I – ah, _we_ – have your permission to excuse ourselves? Such an undertaking will no doubt involve a great deal of thought and planning, to begin with."

"By all means," Gwen said, biting back the instinctive apology and her justification for the enormous task she'd set them. _Not just for me – for all of us_ , she reminded herself.

Lancelot backed a step, before wheeling to stride to the door.

Arthur said not a word, only mirrored Lancelot's movements on a single second's delay. His jaw was hard, and he would not meet her eyes.

He was angry.

Gwen realized she was intrigued – maybe a bit piqued – and maybe a bit excited, to glimpse what he always held in such tight control. She spoke without thinking, or considering the fairness of the request – then again, fair was what royalty decided it was, right?

"Lord Arthur, a word… if you please."

He paused halfway to the door with his back to her – reluctantly, she thought – and though Lancelot glanced back as he closed the door, his expression didn't change, at what she'd said or whatever Arthur's countenance held, or hid.

She moved around her desk, to lean backwards against it, and folded her bared arms over the bodice of her wine-red silk dress. "You're angry," she observed, more interested than offended. "With me? or just the idea?"

Which really was, much the same thing.

"I don't have the right to be angry with you," he said neutrally – but still didn't turn.

Night and day difference to how he'd said, _It's written by a_ man.

"What then?" she said, deliberately goading him. "Impatient? Afraid?"

At his sides, his hands formed fists. Part of her thought of Nimueh and the blacksmith, warned her to stop before she provoked something she would have to punish him for. Part of her still wondered, what that would be. If even an educated lord would behave like a mindless criminal, under the right circumstances.

She added condescendingly, "Do you need my permission to speak freely?"

His head swiveled sharply, a quarter-turn to the left, as if he couldn't immediately stop his entire body whirling around in challenge. "Disappointed?"

The word was unpredictably hurtful. She drew in a breath, but no response came from her parted lips.

Why did it matter what he thought? But it did.

Then he turned around, and regret lurked in the blue of his eyes. Without asking for permission to approach, he stepped to a point just beyond arms'-reach. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to…" He cut himself off, exhaled and tipped his head back to look at the timbers supporting the ceiling as if there were answers there, before leveling his gaze at her again. "I allowed myself to resent your inability to decide between us by conventional means. In your place, I might have found such a choice quite easy, or impossibly difficult, I cannot say. It is your right, as you said, to set a quest to aid your judgment, and it is wrong of me to trivialize your reasons."

"Damn right it is," Gwen said. _Forget convention, let's see what naked honesty can do for a man and a woman. Is it me that Taliesin saw? Is it_ him _?_ "You think I'm empty-headed and silly, drawing this out because I can, playing with the two of you, teasing and flirting? You think maybe to ride half a day, persuade some old miser to sell you the prize gem of her collection and return it here to compare inanely to my beauty – and then maybe consider you got off lucky after all, when I turn you down in favor of Lancelot?"

"Highness," Arthur said, blue eyes icy again, "I cannot imagine that you intend to insult my mother and her training by implying that I would not do my _best_ to –"

"What do you want, Arthur?" she interrupted, pushing up from her desk to take a step closer. "Tell me the truth. What do you want? To manage Dubois for your mother, and then for your cousin, all your life? Sire half a dozen children at someone else's desire, and hope your daughters are strong enough to kill and your sons humble enough to serve? Or do you want your daughter on the throne?"

Another step closer, and she could see that he was breathing faster – his eyes flicked almost involuntarily down her curve-fitting wine silk dress.

"I'll tell you a secret, Lord Arthur." She made his name, the title purchased by his mother, into a sneer. "My magic is not like my mother's. My magic is nearly nonexistent – I got lucky in the arena, when it was my turn. And we're alone."

She sauntered in a slow circle around him, almost and yet not touching him; she thought he was very aware of her proximity, though he didn't follow her progress visually. Then continued the few steps to her desk, with her back to him. _What are you doing?_

 _Playing with fire. Testing limits._ Her own heart was pounding.

"What do you want, Arthur?" she said again. " _Take it_. I even give you permission."

His boots were silent on the carpet; he was behind her in a whisper of clothing close enough to brush, shared heat, and breath stirring the hair by her ear, tickling the exposed skin of her neck and collarbone.

"Permission, but not invitation," he said. She shivered at the low note of his voice. "First, you say, I have to prove myself."

For a moment they stood so, his body trapping hers against the desk – still without touching – unless she wanted to push or order him away. And she didn't; she didn't dare even glance over her shoulder at him.

Would his kiss and touch be just like Lancelot's, or different? and how?

"Truth, Guinevere? I want what my parents have. Mutual respect, cooperation toward a common goal, lifelong companionship and _trust_. When my father defers to my mother's position and leadership, it's because he knows she's taken his private counsel seriously, he trusts her decisions and he'd give his life to effect her will and achieve their agreed goal. And when my mother submits to him –"

Gwen's breath caught – a hint of such talk to the wrong person could mean execution for both Ygraine and her illicit husband. Not to mention Arthur himself.

"When she submits to him, it is with the full knowledge that he comprehends the value of what she's giving him, and treasures her, too much to hurt her in any way. She doesn't have to grasp at any semblance of control, because _she trusts him_ , and the power of love – and _respect_ \- is stronger than that of fear."

The tapestry-hung wall behind her desk blurred. Her heart ached with longing, and she didn't know why.

"You tell me, is that a fool's dream?" His voice had gentled, without losing intensity. "Or am I…"

He shifted past her and she twisted without thinking, to see that sharp blue gaze directed to her desktop. To the copy of Taliesin's _Prophetic History_ , upside-down from where they were standing. She could not tell what thought might have interrupted him; a moment later he lifted his head to stare blindly at the tapestry, himself.

And when he looked at her again, the anger and the tension had eased almost entirely; in his expression was dawning comprehension.

Those reasons she had decided, not to tell. Not to tell him, because he would react differently than Lancelot. Because he might understand her choice to let destiny take a hand. But if he _guessed_ …

Gwen said nothing, only held his eyes.

And then he said, in a completely different calm, "Excuse me, my lady. I have a – quest, to prepare for."

She inclined her head. "My lord." And watching him turn and pace to the door, lost in the same muted thoughtfulness.

Well. At least the burden of choice had lifted from her shoulders, a bit. For now.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival had – except on occasion – been proud of his two younger sisters. He'd been startled by the same feeling for Gwaine once or twice during their forming friendship, and more often since that had become an established and unbreakable thing.

And now he felt it for Merlin.

Because it took courage of a different sort to do what he was doing, and Percival wasn't thinking only of the massive cleaning job.

The place Merlin had chosen to rent for the clinic could have been rented as a private residence, and probably had been, in the past. Moderately high ceilings, two sizeable main rooms just inside the door – one of which was equipped with cabinetry - and only separated by a pair of supporting columns. Four smaller rooms, easily separated from the short hall with a new drape over the open doorway, were divided to the rear. The side and back walls were shared by other structures, as was half the roof, but two windows illuminated the front area, the glass protected by decorative ironwork.

The interior was filthy, as evidently it had been vacant for some time, kitchen refuse left for rats who left refuse themselves, paper and rotten fabrics and a couple of dilapidated crates.

The first day – a _long_ day – Percival and Merlin worked with conjured buckets of water, brushes and cloths. Percival privately considered he wasn't much help, having to work one-handed or –armed a good deal of the time, but Merlin was tireless and _cheerful_ , even filthy and exhausted from his exertions. Even when people glanced curiously in the open door – left that way on purpose, to invite questions and spread the word through the neighborhood about the new business.

Even when the responses to Merlin's optimism were rude enough to tighten Percival's jaw - mocking Merlin's citizenship with the slavish labor he was so obviously employed in. The light dimmed in his boy-master's blue eyes following such visits – but not for long. Merlin seemed sure he could change minds eventually.

Percival was sure of that also – if the young man was to be allowed the chance. He kept his eye out for women with long curly yellow hair, but didn't see anyone who might have been the citizen from the alley rooftop.

He found he could manage a long-handed brush without his bruised right arm well enough to clean the wall panels and the exposed ceiling-beams. They were pleased to discover, most of the wood paneling on the walls and the planks of the floor were better than decent, only a few would need replacement. Prying them off was a job for the third day, when he and Merlin worked around each other, he stacking the broken sections of discarded paneling, and Merlin stacking the boxes and bags of delivered supplies in the kitchen area of the clinic.

"Just met the citizen above us, at the well," Gwaine said, stepping over the open threshold, hoisting the bucket of real water in his arms. "She's moving out – going to live with her daughter – and I thought, wouldn't it be handy for the three of us to rent that space for our own use, rather than the other, as it's further away."

Percival dropped his last armful of broken slats on the pile in the front room, discarding his musings on whether they could be used for bed-frames or side tables or even benches for anyone accompanying or visiting patients, to look to Merlin, half-hidden in the disorganization of the other room.

For a moment longer, their boy-master bent over the counter formed by the tops of a second row of waist-high cabinets, focused on the leather-bound sheaf of papers on which he kept track of their supplies and expenses, his fingers making upright spikes of his black hair. Then he straightened and threw down the charcoal pencil, to look silently at Gwaine for several moments, then Percival.

Because that tiny apartment had been his home, with people he'd loved and lost. It was more than just a question of convenience. Much more.

Percival would not fault him for rejecting Gwaine's suggestion, but Merlin took a slow look around the room – the two of them, the clutter of the discarded old, the unpacked new – and nodded silently.

Then sighed, a melancholy sound of resignation that reached Percival even across the room. "It does make more sense," he said. "We're almost done here, we can take tomorrow and see about that. And visit the clothier's."

That, Percival had resisted more than Gwaine. Resisted internally; he knew it didn't make sense for Merlin to conjure their clothing every day. He just, didn't feel right about having a single coin of that gold spent on him. Gwaine argued, how was that any different than spending it on their food… and Percival didn't have an answer for him.

Gwaine crossed to the opposite side of the cabinet's-counter and made space for the bucket. "Have some water, Percival," he invited, as Merlin conjured a handle-less tin cup with one deft hand. "Then I'll help you finish the paneling in that last back room."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The first night in their new apartment, Merlin found it hard to sleep. The previous tenant had left it clean as well as empty, and their conjured bedding was the same – until they could afford _real_ , still a luxury for the three of them in their condition. But three rooms instead of one meant he slept alone for the first time in his life, Percival and Gwaine sharing the second.

There wasn't anything left in the tiny one-room apartment to miss – except maybe memories. The first night Merlin laid wakeful, though dry-eyed, and missed also the lulling comfort of his two companions asleep in the same, though he wouldn't have admitted a certain occasional appreciation of Gwaine's snoring, under torture.

The second night, he fell asleep immediately and hard.

He'd done an all-day free clinic, medical care by conjuration only, which cost them nothing but energy on Merlin's part, and hopefully earned them plenty of goodwill in the neighborhood.

A baby girl with a burn on her foot from a spilled bowl of breakfast porridge was first. Her tender skin was already blistered when her anxious mother carried her in, red-faced and teary-eyed, trailing two skinny inquisitive older brothers in their wake. Of course it would need tending beyond the twenty-four hour conjured care, but the burn paste he'd used for Percival and Gwaine and the bandage to protect the injury would help for a day. His two companions had entertained the little boys, and Merlin had finally won smiles from both mother and daughter by the time they left.

A boy a few years older, maybe halfway to manhood, bleeding down his face from a cut-and-bruise he'd gotten tripping down the stairs. In that instance, brought by a neighbor both bored and nosy – Merlin was only glad it didn't require stitches, nervous under the scrutiny. Bleeding stopped after a few moments with the feathery conjured leaves of yarrow, honey and another bandage.

Seeing people other than he and Gwaine and Percival coming and going maybe encouraged others, and it had been steady, if not busy, work all day.

A slave with a boil on his elbow that made it impossible to bend fully. Merlin lanced it, smeared it with a conjured turmeric paste and bandaged it. An older freedman with a persistent cough, worried him more diagnostically, but the man was grateful to have his symptoms eased, if only for the day.

The nearest apothecary sent her fifteen-year-old daughter to investigate them and their new clinic; Gwaine made her giggle and Merlin hoped for a good business relationship with her mother, in future. Another male who looked like an off-duty Watchman, with a twisted wrist – not broken, but Merlin conjured bandaging to stabilize and support the joint, then advised the man, quiet and _watchful_ , on continuing care. And hoped for a good report when the man returned to his superiors in the Watch-building.

An abscessed tooth that needed pulling – leaving him sweating and shaking, and the patient floating pleased on the pain-reducer Merlin conjured. An infected insect bite from an urchin down the road who came alone and wouldn't quit staring at Percival.

And on and on. Some were startled at the golden gleam in his eye as he conjured, and he was a bit self-conscious about it at first – but then was too busy, and he didn't notice that anyone minded anymore.

Merlin slept exhausted and happy.

When he woke, it was to an apprehensive disorientation. The place was dark and unfamiliar, the heat of the season stiflingly oppressive.

He had time only to wonder whether it would be worth the bother of getting up – for a drink of real water, fresh from the well in the courtyard down the street, to drag his bedding out to the roof of the clinic that formed the dooryard for their residence - and someone was kneeling above him, hands moving against his arm, his chest.

"Merlin, wake up!" Percival's voice said. "Are you awake?"

"Yes – what's…"

"Smoke."

Merlin still didn't understand, but willingly obeyed Percival's insistent help, sitting and then standing. He felt inordinately dizzy and hot and the air was thick – he coughed and couldn't seem to stop.

Percival led him from the room, toward their door, standing open to the darkness of midnight, interrupting himself with coughing spells, too. "Didn't leave a lamp burning, so I don't know… Gwaine thought maybe it came up the waste-grate…"

Merlin's mind processed slowly. So it wasn't some worry, distant but visible in the city, that was of interest, but closer to home… Their waste-grate connected to the same area in the downstairs clinic before passing outside to the city's gutters and sewers. But for the smoke up here to be so _thick_ …

"He went down to check –"

" _Percival_!"

The scream, and the blast of fresher air as they emerged from their new apartment onto the roof of the clinic woke Merlin thoroughly. The stone tiles under his bare feet were mid-summer noon hot, all wrong for nearly-autumn midnight.

And he could see, by a dim eerie glow of flickering orange, beyond the rooftop and down to the street.

And someone unseen called out, "Fire!"

Percival yanked on the sleeve of the ragged old shirt Merlin slept in to get him moving, then released him, already sprinting to the side of the roof and the narrow stone stair. Merlin followed, staring open-mouthed toward the street, the orange glow reflected against buildings opposite – and he realized.

It was _his_ place, in flames.

He was not quite to the stair – Percival disappearing as he leaped down two or three at a time – when something drew his attention back to the place across the street, a potter's house and shop. On the roof stood a figure in a dark hooded cloak – odd on a late-summer night – unmoving in the face of emergency below. A woman, ten years his senior, with sharp features and long blonde waves of hair escaping the hood.

She looked up at nearly the same instant and saw him, too. _Recognized_ him.

And she smiled, archly gleeful.

But he had no time to worry about that.

Barefoot, he skidded down the stair, scraping and bruising palms and soles, rounded the corner just as one of the windows exploded from inside. Percival ducked, raising one arm to shield his face, then plunged through the door.

Merlin didn't hesitate to follow, lifting his sleeve to breathe through.

The heat was almost unbearably intense, bright flames engulfing the stack of rotted and damaged wall-paneling on his right, the row of cabinets on his left –

Where he'd stored most of the deliveries, dried herbs powdered roots and seeds waiting to be crushed, clay- and glass-ware that would be ruined in the heat –

Where Gwaine was trying to beat out the fire with a length of cloth in his hands. Percival emerged from the last room on the left down the short hall, stumbling and coughing like fires there had overwhelmed him. Orange and yellow tongues lapped at the base of the walls, all around.

It took half a second for Merlin to assess the situation.

Then he sprang into action – hands out in spite of the energy he'd drained that day – water gouting, spraying from his palms. He spun, flinging water by the gallon to drench every wall, tossing it up to the smoking roof-beams. Turning without pause toward the short hall and the smaller rooms, fully prepared to knock Percival out of his way and continue soaking the clinic.

One of his friends shouted in alarm, and the room seemed to implode.

The fire was a live thing surrounding them, leaping large to consume each wall, roiling over the ceiling, inhaling all the oxygen and belching sour black smoke. Percival barreled into him and didn't stop, wrapping his arms around Merlin and half-carrying him bodily through the fire-framed doorway.

The former soldier didn't stop til they were across the street – suddenly populated with their frantic neighbors, concerned about the buildings around, calling questions and orders unintelligible to Merlin.

He fought Percival, trying to return to fight the fire – why didn't the water help, maybe _more_ water would – he would have been screaming if smoke and heat had left him the breath.

Gwaine was beside them, panting and soot-streaked, the whites of his eyes the only clean thing showing in his face, trying to calm Merlin with his hands. "It's no good!" he gasped in Merlin's ear. "It's no good – it's too late!"

Over Percival's shoulder Merlin saw the entire structure shudder, flames billowing out both windows in reaction to an interior collapse. Their second-level apartment appeared misshapen through clouds of smoke and heat-waver, and he remembered, the rest of their gold was in the chest in his bedroom, along with his citizenship papers. Impossible to get to. Lost.

Why didn't the water work?

"Stop fighting me." Merlin had never heard that hoarse emotion in Percival's voice. "Merlin, stop fighting me. There's nothing you can do."

By degrees he sagged against his friends' arms, knees giving way til they were huddled over him on the street. Even if he could extinguish the fire completely, right this moment, there would be too much permanent damage already done.

Another explosion of sparks, and sections of the apartment crashed down through weakened support. Merlin moaned aloud.

Ruined, all.

 **A/N: There was a quest in the book that the queen character sent Arthur's character on, but I can't remember the reason for it… And the fire is according to the book, also.**

 **Next chapter, I'm going to try to start making it up to Merlin…**


	7. New Partners

**Chapter 7: New Partners**

Dawn found Merlin seated in the gutter across from the ruin of his clinic and new home. Palms up and empty in his lap, reddened and betraying a slight tremble.

For the moment, alone.

Gwaine and Percival had left his side only occasionally, during the night – the long night as the world burned-charred-smoldered – to see that no one was hurt, that the fire didn't spread to the other buildings, though the smoke that still rose in a handful of isolated places had coated the neighboring walls with ash.

He wished for rain. That would clear the gritty smear from everything… from him. If it rained, though, he thought he might break. And weep, because it would still come _too late_.

People milled about – residents and neighbors still in shock, still checking families and possessions, wondering what would be done. Others from further neighborhoods, curiously seeking a closer look at what they'd noticed in the night, or heard about in the morning's gossip, spreading…

Spreading about him. They watched him, all of them, he knew that though he felt their glances but distantly, and heard nothing but the roaring in his head.

The hungry growl of fire. The mocking laughter of the arena.

Why had he acted to trap Gwaine, to pin Percival. They would have made death fast for him; he'd seen them do it. He probably would have felt no pain, and then they would be free. And he would be free…

All he had was magic, and it wasn't enough.

All he'd done was make things worse.

He blinked, and watched Percival rummage and sift through the wreckage – some of the stone wall still standing, some of the roof left in place. But not much. There were half a dozen Watchmen doing the same, and he wondered vaguely, what for.

One of the blue-uniformed Watchmen stepped through the gap where one of the windows had been, spoke to their female officer, supervising from the street and staying clean. She was tiny, wiry, and sour, black hair tucked behind her ears and hanging straight to her shoulders. She listened, she questioned – and turned to a woman Merlin's inattention had taken for a curious loiterer.

The heavyset, red-haired landlord. He was surprised – and then not. Of course she would come to personally inspect the damage to her property, first thing when she heard. After a moment, they both turned and looked at him – then began making their way across the rubble-strewn street.

Immediately a hand grasped his elbow and exerted insistent upward pressure. It startled him into looking up – he wasn't aware anyone was that close to him; he'd never seen Gwaine looking so grim – and sound trickled through his broken world.

"On your feet, sir," Gwaine said, most of his attention on the women. "Face this like a man, at least, Merlin."

He scrambled, awkward for his friend's help, and was unsteadily upright when the two women reached them.

"Lamp oil leaves a certain residue," the officer said without preamble. "Figure you left a lamp burning, a window open, whatever, it got knocked over and spread."

"Which means, you're liable for the damage to my property," the red-haired landlord added.

Merlin looked her full in the face, intending to apologize – she should have been _livid_ … she wasn't.

"We didn't leave a lamp burning," Gwaine said, and tacked on, "Ma'am," just in time to keep it from being too rude. "Or a window open. We locked the door when we retired – and yet it was standing open when I discovered the fire."

"That residue…" Merlin startled again as Percival appeared on his left, unsmiling but respectful. "Is all through the building. Walls, ceilings, floors, cabinets – even our rubbish pile. It was no accident – someone set the fire on purpose. And in such a way that trying to put it out with water, would only cause it to spread."

Merlin looked between the two women to the blackened stone still standing, the charred ruins sifting smoke and ash into the air, over the street. On purpose. Well, that explained why his attempts hadn't worked; but it also meant that someone hated, or resented – or feared, a small voice suggested – him, _this much_.

A brief flash of memory – black cloak, blonde curls, triumphant expression – was interrupted by the Watch officer turning to the red-haired landlord.

"You could always see what a judge has to say about it," she suggested, and the broad redhead grimaced, turning away from them. The tiny, wiry officer glared at him and his two male companions – all taller than her by at least a foot – in turn. "This street needs clearing."

"Yes, ma'am," Gwaine said, with only a fraction of his usual energy.

Both women moved to depart in different directions – the officer calling her half-dozen guards to heel, the landlord in close confidence with another associate.

Merlin let the front wall of the potter's shop support him. He felt lethargic, head to toe, inside and out, as if his brain simply refused to think, even of the basic needs of food, clothing, shelter. He said hollowly, "We're back to nothing."

"Not nothing," Percival said. "We're alive, and mostly unharmed."

"You think you can manage boots for the two of us?" Gwaine said, lifting one bare foot to examine the sole – filthy, and with one or two smears of blood from a cut or broken blister. "A couple of brooms, and maybe a shovel? If we clear the street like the officer said, I say we leave the rest to the landlord."

Merlin thought of the gold from the chest – probably consumed in the fire, the gold melted-run-hardened, and didn't feel it was worth the effort to salvage. Perhaps if they left it for her to deal with, she would consider it sufficient compensation.

Gwaine was still speaking. "Let's not worry about court summons until it comes, and catching the person who did this is up to the Watch. We can see if your old apartment is still empty, and we can use it again."

On credit, Merlin was reminded.

He slid down the wall again, focused, and the boots formed. The magic seemed sluggish and reluctant to him, and though he was sure he'd gotten the sizes wrong, they didn't complain. The square wooden shovel was easier than two brooms, but Percival stopped him from rising with a hand on his shoulder as he took the second from him.

"You rest," the former soldier said, and it was undeniably an order. And spoken with a compassion that pricked tears in Merlin's eyes.

The two of them went to work, grimly methodical. Gawkers who had no other business there retreated gradually; Merlin wrapped his arms around his knees and huddled sideways into the wall. It was hard to keep his eyes open, as exhaustion plucked him toward oblivion, but the situation and circumstances made sleep impossible.

Instead he blinked drowsily at his two friends as they worked. It occurred to him that for the first time, he was glad Gaius had not been there. Was not here, now. Last night might have been the death of the old man, in more than one way, and Merlin could not have borne that, on top of everything else.

Maybe an hour passed, maybe more. The morning light was brighter, the street nearly cleared of sooty rubble, and Merlin's stomach beginning to contemplate hunger, when someone's shadow stopped over him. His neck complained of the angle as he squinted up; his skin felt cold all over, shivery-sore from the slight fire-damage, though it wasn't so bad as to blister.

She said, "You're Merlin?"

 _On your feet. Face it like a man_.

Merlin trembled as he pushed slowly and laboriously upright, and realized he recognized her. The thirty-something clerk with the tight brown braid from Morgana's counting-house – her lips were pressed tightly together, hazel eyes shuttered. She held out a scroll, which he took reflexively.

"I have a message from Morgana," she explained.

Her eyes flicked sideways, and Merlin was not surprised to see that Percival and Gwaine had joined them. Sweaty now as well as filthy, but silent as the clerk-messenger continued.

"Morgana heard about the fire, that the building was destroyed along with everything in it." She glanced over as if making sure the report was correct. "She's concluded that you've lost your ability to repay the loan, therefore it has been re-determined. Morgana wants the sum of the loan refunded in full gold within twenty-four hours, or she takes possession of the surety. By the Watch's force, if necessary."

Lords. It had to be a nightmare, didn't it? Merlin stared at her a moment longer, down at the scroll – no, there it was, tight-rolled in his hand. There were his two arena-slaves – his two _friends_ – there the decimated building and dream.

"What was the surety?" Gwaine asked.

The clerk didn't look away from Merlin. "Do you have a response you wish me to convey to Morgana? I need to be able to assure her that the new terms have been communicated and understood."

He cleared his throat and opened his mouth… and had to try again, before he managed, "I understand."

She nodded once briskly, then pivoted and strode away, her head turned to study the burned building til she reached the corner.

"Merlin." That was Percival, but Merlin couldn't bear to lift his eyes from the scroll; he had no idea what might become of the two of them if he was to be – "What was the surety?"

His eyes burned. He blinked, and the trickles of moisture cracked the dried grime on his face unpleasantly. "Me," he whispered. "It was me."

"You mean, she keeps you as a slave, or sells you?" Gwaine demanded incredulously.

Merlin couldn't help flinching at his tone. "I'm not sure."

It occurred to him, slavery would be ten times worse, now that the city of women knew what he was capable of, magically. If he wasn't to be wrung dry of his ability to conjure to someone else's orders, attempts to pass it on to female progeny would be _sold_. Again, and again, and again –

"We won't let that happen." Gwaine's hands were on his shoulders, his chin tucked to make Merlin meet his eyes. No trace of a grin; he was deadly serious. "Last resort, we can always go fugitive and run for the border. Find a band of marauders to join, they'll take us, I'm sure."

They'd been soldiers. Now they'd join their enemy, and kill men in Camelot uniform? If they weren't caught by the Watch or the army, first.

"There's other options," Percival stated, and Gwaine released him to look at the big man, as Merlin did. "Maybe if you spoke to Morgana, you could re-negotiate a repayment schedule. You could lease us to the quarries. That wouldn't break the arena-rules, and we could earn –"

"No," Merlin said. To both suggestions, though he didn't have an alternative in mind that wouldn't be hell for one or all of them. "No, it has to be the full sum by tomorrow morning, or else…"

"And, there's probably no way we could earn that much accepting those other offers, either," Gwaine sighed. "Even going multiple times with the highest bidders…"

Merlin flinched again – then swallowed hard. As a slave, he wouldn't be able to refuse, or choose, or stop when a certain amount had been earned…

"Excuse me." A male voice, quiet but confident, raised slightly to address them.

As Merlin turned to face the newcomer, he noticed that neither Percival nor Gwaine appeared startled, as if soldiers' instincts had already registered his presence, at least, if not his approach. He was a well-built man, with bearing and expression to match his voice, dressed in a soldier's black trousers and boots, but the matching jacket was missing, and the sleeves of the belted white shirt were rolled to his elbow. He wore a short beard and his red-gold hair was both shorter and curlier than Gwaine's – though not by much.

And Merlin thought he recognized him. The off-duty Watchman with the twisted wrist? – no, both joints were bandage-free. Maybe not the same man.

"May I have a moment?" the man continued, joining them. Hazel eyes, intelligent but mild, glanced all three of them over before returning to Merlin. "I apologize if my timing is offensive, but my captain heard of your fire last night and – forgive me – assumes you face financial straits to a greater or lesser degree, and wishes to present an offer of mutual assistance."

 _Captain_ sounded better than _master_ , anyway.

Merlin said, "Right away?"

"At your convenience," the man responded courteously.

Percival and Gwaine exchanged a look, and Percival's hand kept Merlin in place, as Gwaine drew the newcomer off a few steps. Not out of earshot, unfortunately.

"The thing is," Gwaine told the stranger, "our home burned along with the shop, so we've got nowhere to clean up, and nothing to change into." Their real clothing was ruined, now, smudged gray and torn in more than one place, shirt and trousers on all three of them.

"Nothing to eat?" the man returned, shrewdly but not unkindly, and Merlin was grateful he didn't add, _and no coin to purchase any of these things with_. "My captain wishes to meet in a private room of a tavern near the palace – there will be food there, and rooms for you to use for your other needs."

"Free if we show up to listen?" Gwaine said narrowly.

The man smiled, unexpectedly. "You bargain in your master's place?" They both looked at Merlin.

"I do when he's three sheets to the wind from using his magic," Gwaine retorted, in a way that made Merlin feel safe and accepted, rather than the reverse. Also, he was too tired to consider taking offense.

The stranger nodded, unperturbed. "My captain wants you there, so yes – all service complimentary, and not dependent upon agreement."

"And so you bargain in your captain's name," Gwaine observed.

The man's smile widened, rather than disappearing. "Even so," he said. "If you would follow me?"

Merlin didn't see any reason not to.

Two streets down he realized he was limping because he was still barefoot. Percival held his balance for him as he conjured a pair of ugly but simple leather shoes and put them on – and the stranger watched – and they continued.

"What's your name, then?" Gwaine asked, keeping pace easily with him, as Percival and Merlin followed silently. "Who's your captain?"

Or maybe it was easy to keep pace because they were moving slowly, for him – the man kept glancing over his shoulder as if afraid Merlin was going to dash off, disappointing his captain's expectations. He wanted to assure their guide, he was physically incapable of dashing, at the moment, but had no breath for words.

"My captain is the steward for the commander of the garrison of Dubois, speaks and does business in her name," the stranger answered, glancing at Gwaine, then back over his shoulder again at Merlin. "My name is Leon."

"Leon," Gwaine said, as if testing the name out, before approving. "I'm Gwaine, he's Percival. I've never been to Dubois – what's it like?"

"Hot, this time of year," Leon said, an answer without an answer, and even Merlin noticed.

Gwaine grunted. "And what does Dubois want with Merlin?"

Good question, but if Leon answered, Merlin didn't hear it. _Near the palace_ was uphill from anywhere else in the city, and already he felt like he'd been walking forever. One foot in front of the other, panting breaths keeping time and filling his ears. It seemed to him that he couldn't remember a time before he'd begun this interminable journey, and he couldn't envision a time when he'd be allowed to stop – couldn't see much past the next cobblestone step – and what would he do with his legs anyway, if he stopped.

He found out, when Leon raised his voice to inform them, "Here we are."

His legs trembled, and he tried to blink the black spots out of the blue sky as he looked up.

Two-story tavern, and they'd come around the back, where an outside stair led to a private entrance over what might have been the back door, for kitchen workers and deliveries. That stair seemed a mountain, but he shut his teeth on complaint, and thanked Percival silently for the steady hand at his back that wouldn't let him tumble down again.

Leon knocked twice, but opened the door before Merlin discerned any cue from within to do so – but they were expected, after all.

The chamber was furnished as a dining- rather than bed-room, somewhat larger than his boyhood apartment, and dominated by the eight-person table-and-chairs in the center. There was an interior door just across from where they entered, and a high narrow sideboard at the far end of the room on the left, where two men turned from their conversation, expectant at the interruption.

They were both light-haired, but that was where the similarity stopped. One man was dressed as Leon was, in a soldier's uniform but without the formal jacket. He was an inch or so taller than the other, and maybe two decades older, by the lines on his face, thin and slightly hunched but wiry.

The other was young, only a handful of years older than Merlin, muscular like Leon – but not deferential like their guide. Not in the least. He wore earth-brown trousers and a deep-red tunic buttoned over a bleached linen shirt.

Merlin had expected a woman, but that thought was completely forgotten in the realization that he _did_ recognize this man.

"I saw you with the princess," he blurted out across the room. "You're one of her slaves?" Which meant, maybe, that Leon's captain had yet to arrive?

"Not quite." The man sauntered toward them as Percival and Gwaine shuffled Merlin further into the room and Leon closed the door behind them. He wasn't smiling; Merlin found he resented the expression on his face as those sharp blue eyes raked over himself and his companions.

Percival commented neutrally, "He's one of her lovers."

Gwaine whistled between his teeth; the thin blonde man snorted.

The younger one stiffened, and his eyes went past Merlin – to Percival probably – speculatively. "Not yet," he corrected. "My name is Arthur. I'm the son and steward of the commander of Dubois, and I have an offer for you."

"You have," Merlin said. "Not, your mother has?"

"I am her agent," Arthur answered, and there was a distinct – but maybe unconscious – note of pride in his voice that gave Merlin an unexpected pang of missing Hunith. "She has complete confidence in my choices."

"Excuse me, but – your timing is more than a little coincidental," Gwaine said, his tone bordering disrespectful. "And I for one am a little short on trust, recently."

"Mm. And you?" Arthur appeared more interested than offended, addressing Merlin.

"I'm a little short on sleep," Merlin told him bluntly.

"Yes, I – heard about the fire. I am sorry for the misfortune. Perhaps you won't believe me when I say, I had considered this offer prior to yesterday – though not by much."

Merlin hummed noncommittally, thinking of the blonde woman he'd seen on the rooftop. Not a misfortune, a deliberate act of sabotage. He tried to remember her more clearly, if she was old enough to have a son Arthur's age… No, that was too much of a stretch. He twisted slightly to speak to Leon, leaning on the inside of the door. "How's the wrist? And what were you really there for?"

Leon smiled, unembarrassed at being caught out. Arthur said, "Just a bit of preliminary scouting, to see if it was worth our while to approach you with the offer."

"I see," Merlin said. "And now that we've lost everything, it is?"

"I hadn't made up my mind, yesterday," Arthur said. "Leon said you had a decent start on a new business, you had no reason to agree to my proposition." Something shifted in his eyes, as if he were suddenly looking deeper than the tattered clothing and smoke-grime. "But now – yes, I can believe a partnership could be beneficial to both of us."

He couldn't deny, he needed _someone_ to do _something_ ; he was out of acceptable options. But… partnership? Merlin felt his eyebrows lift, but before he could say anything, Arthur went on.

"Before we talk business, there's a washroom down the hall, and Tristan–" he turned to the thin man with the lined face – "can bring up some food from the kitchen."

Percival moved to open the door for Merlin, glanced out as if checking for danger, both ways down the corridor the chamber opened into.

Following Merlin, Gwaine quipped, "Bring plenty!"

Down the hall – one closed door on the opposite side, a couple more behind them, and at the end, the interior stair – the washroom was small, but not uncomfortably so, even for three grown men to share. Lucky they were used to sharing.

"What do you think?" Gwaine said immediately. Both of them began pulling their ruined shirts off over their heads.

"Hear him out," Percival recommended. "See what he has to say, decide if we can trust him."

"We haven't got anything left to lose," Merlin said softly, without looking at them. He sat on his heels next to the tin bucket placed beside a much larger metal bathtub, and concentrated on water. The best he could do was lukewarm, and he wasn't going to be able to fill the tub once, much less three times.

That didn't bother either of his soldier-slaves; cloths and soap were provided, and each took a turn washing while the other two turned their backs. Like him, they had cuts and bruises from the fire, but no burns raising blisters or requiring medical attention. Merlin found it hard to open his eyes and straighten and move, when it was his turn; his body protested that the best course of action was to relax into a heap there on the washroom floor and let oblivion take him.

Not yet.

"Can you conjure more water for laundry?" Gwaine said, holding his charry shirt up for inspection. Because the beauty of conjured wash-water was, it could be dismissed and leave a person or garment dry.

"New clothes," Merlin said, and Percival turned from wiping the residue left in the bottom of the tub.

"Are you sure?" he said. "If you could see yourself in a mirror right now -"

"I'll be fine," Merlin said, focusing and summoning his strength. "I might fall asleep with my face in the porridge, but…" He wanted Arthur to take them – to take _him_ – seriously.

Gwaine laughed and accepted the clothes Merlin conjured – slow and not his best work, belts that tied rather than buckled, though they'd do for the day – but sobered when he saw Merlin prepared to wear the same as them. Dark blue trousers and boots, plain white shirt. Merlin looked them both full in the face for a moment – first Gwaine, who nodded in wordless acceptance of Merlin's declaration of equality – then Percival.

"How do you feel?" the big man asked seriously, crossing his arms over his sleeveless white tunic.

Dizzy-sleepy, and slow. He said honestly, "Like I've been drinking, actually."

"Two glasses of wine, or three?" Gwaine said.

Merlin considered. "One and a half?"

Gwaine grinned. "You'll be fine."

Merlin thought, _Just don't sign anything_.

Back down the hall to the private chamber, they found half the table supporting three large trays of food – cold, but plentiful as Gwaine had requested – and tableware waiting for them. Fried potatoes, bacon and sliced ham, bread and cheese and whole fresh peaches.

Arthur was seated at one end of one side of the table; Merlin found he'd unconsciously expected him to have taken the single chair at the head, and was glad he hadn't. There was something about him, an almost-arrogance that made Merlin feel and resent his poverty and failure, as he didn't with Percival or Gwaine. The thin man called Tristan leaned casually on the sideboard in the corner; Leon straightened from a similar position on the back of the chair next to Arthur – who looked faintly surprised to see them.

Merlin lifted his chin – had he thought they'd run away? – and chose the chair at the end, just across from Arthur. For a moment Arthur studied them again – Gwaine who seated himself at the foot of the table with obvious relish for the meal, Percival who remained standing to fill a plate and pass it to Merlin.

He was hungry, but also a little queasy. Maybe from eating nothing – maybe from losing everything.

"Why did you pick soldiers?" Arthur said, conversationally.

Leon and Tristan were already watching him; both Gwaine and Percival – paused halfway to sitting – looked at Arthur, then at Merlin also.

It occurred to him to lie, to claim he'd intended his choice, for the very reasons it had worked out, clever powerful him.

He said, "I didn't mean to. I chose to test my magic because my mother and my teacher made me promise to. I picked Percival because he looked like, if my magic wasn't strong enough, at least he'd make it quick. And Gwaine, because he was standing right next, and I had to choose two. I didn't know anything else about them, then."

Gwaine said, not too quietly, "Lords, Merlin," with a grin and shake of his head. Percival turned his eyes to the rafters momentarily, before settling into his seat and tucking into the food.

"And now they're your friends?" Arthur said skeptically. "I saw what you did in the arena. You used them against each other."

Merlin looked down at sliced ham and cold potatoes, and his knife and fork seemed very heavy. It was true, of course, only – it had happened so fast in the arena, he hadn't thought of it in such terms.

"He didn't use our friendship against us," Percival commented matter-of-factly from the other end of the table. "He used it to save us."

Merlin turned his head to look at Percival, now serenely working his way through a heaping plate. Gwaine, chewing, lifted his goblet of water in the same hand that held his fork and said indistinctly, "Cheers."

"Your offer?" Merlin said, beginning to eat again.

"You don't want to wait until we can speak in private?" Arthur responded.

Merlin reflected, that maybe hadn't gone very well for him, last time. Settling for a lesser sum might have made Morgana less nervous about recouping it by selling him. "No, I trust them," Merlin said. "It's their lives, too. They stay."

"And Leon and Tristan already know the details of my plan." Arthur leaned on his elbows over the table, clasping his hands together. "I am going to be making a journey, one that will commence as soon as possible. I don't know how long it will take, but it's likely to be difficult and dangerous."

"Sold! When do we leave?" Gwaine said sarcastically.

Arthur glared at him, and Merlin couldn't help the small grin when he looked back. "Yes, he's always like that – you get used to it. So, you want to lease Gwaine and Percival as bodyguards? Because you know I can't sell them?"

"I am my own bodyguard," Arthur said – and though Gwaine snorted, Merlin noticed that Tristan and Leon wore assurance in their expressions. "I'm happy to have them along, if they can defend more than just themselves, and earn their way –" Merlin opened his mouth to tell the story of the alley-fight as proof, but a vague fuzzy conviction that it wasn't really his story to tell, if Arthur even believed it, slowed his tongue. Arthur went on, "No, it's you I want to hire, as quartermaster, if you think you can handle it. I'll pay you half our agreed-upon salary now, and half when we get back."

Merlin stared at him, uncomprehending. Glances to the others in the room didn't help. Lords, he needed sleep. "What?"

"Supplies, mostly. I want to travel fast and light. Food is an obvious necessity, though we can do a little hunting and foraging, but can you do the rest – bedding, wash-water, cook-pots, firewood, and so on – for the six of us, every day for maybe a fortnight?"

"Yes," Merlin said. He couldn't help thinking of details like horses and tack and weaponry that he knew very little about, but it was easier to keep his answers simple when he was having trouble keeping his eyes open, too. "Only – I'm pretty sure I can't leave the city. And I'm pretty sure you can't pay me enough…"

"Explain that?" Arthur said.

For answer, Merlin retrieved the scroll Morgana's clerk had handed him, from inside his new shirt. Arthur looked a bit taken aback, as if startled at a show of trust, but Merlin did not feel up to admissions and explanations, not if it would earn him that look of disappointment again.

"He needed a loan for the clinic and supplies," Gwaine summarized from the other end of the table. "Now that's all gone, the moneylender is calling in his surety."

"Which is –" Arthur said, scanning the scroll that Merlin hadn't so much as glanced at.

"Myself," Merlin said, and smiled in place of weeping. "Suppose you come by the slave auction tomorrow, you can buy me fresh off the block. My value stands the highest of any single male in Camelot, she said."

Arthur's eyes fastened to his face without lifting his head. "She, who?" he demanded.

"Morgana."

Arthur sat back expressionless, but he let the scroll roll back up, and both Leon and Tristan looked at him. "And I suppose this fire, it was an accident, but clearly your fault?"

"The hell it was," Gwaine said, almost a snarl – though his ire was not directed at Arthur.

Arthur tapped his fingers on the edge of the table, gazing contemplatively over Merlin's left shoulder. He decided he was done eating, and shoved his plate away, just as Arthur twisted to meet Leon's eyes and hold some unspoken communication of the sort that Percival and Gwaine often indulged in.

"New offer," Arthur said, turning suddenly back to face Merlin, firm and determined. "I will pay this debt, and you – the three of you, if you like – can work for me until you've reimbursed me."

"Why – why would you –" Astonishment slowed Merlin's reaction; he blinked and leaned his chest on the edge of the table to ease the painful sensation of _hope_ inside.

"Morgana wants payment in gold? She can have it," Arthur said. "I heard a rumor that your eyes turn to gold when you're conjuring? Then that's the gold you can repay me with. If you agree, I'll see to settling this –" he pitched the scroll into Merlin's plate disdainfully – "and you can rest before we talk terms. You'll excuse me for saying so, but you look dead on your feet, and you're not even on your feet. I don't want you feeling I've cheated you at all."

It seemed to Merlin, selling his magic like this to Arthur, and to paying patients, wasn't that dissimilar – but night and day difference to selling himself on the slave-block, or to women who wanted to bed him.

"Requests, not orders – I'm not _your_ slave. And… nothing illegal." His words seemed to be slow, but he was pretty sure they were clear. He frowned at Arthur to be sure they were understood, and Arthur nodded. He turned his head – and the room seemed to spin an extra degree – to ask his two friends, "Deal?"

Percival said to Arthur, "I'll kill you if you cheat him, after all."

Arthur said promptly, "Deal. The tavern-keeper already knows that we may want the bedroom next door, so feel free to use that, for now." He seemed energized by their decision, and made Merlin dizzy, how fast he leaped up.

The tabletop was clear, in front of him, and level, and some part of him trusted that Arthur would make good on the offer to redeem his debt – and then _not_ sell him instead – and the rest of him was _done_. All three of them had food and shelter and hope again.

He didn't care what any of them thought, anymore, and the next room seemed miles away; he curled his arm to pillow his head, and leaned over the table to _sleep_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival was on his feet before Merlin's body settled to stillness, moving to take charge of the boy he still – and might always, odd thought – consider his master, and Gwaine was not far behind him.

Not because he didn't trust Arthur, or the two soldiers evidently under his command as one of the kingdom garrison's stewards – simply because he didn't know them, yet. And Merlin, he felt, needed protection in ways that did not exactly concern physical safety. There was startled and indecisive concern on Arthur's face as Leon stepped up beside him, and Percival reached to lift Merlin from the chair without causing him to fall.

"He's all right, he's just tired," Gwaine said, moving Merlin's chair out of the way with his foot to support the boy's lanky frame on the other side. "None of us got any sleep because of the fire."

"Though I notice neither of you collapsed," remarked the blond wolf of a man Arthur had called Tristan, from the corner. "He's a boy in a man's world."

"He's a citizen," Percival said evenly, giving both Tristan and his captain, the steward Arthur, a hard look. "In a woman's world. Conjuration takes energy and attention, and this is what it looks like when someone runs out."

"And when was the last time you saw one of them exhaust themselves for one of us," Gwaine added, looking up from underneath Merlin's arm over his shoulders.

Arthur circled the table slowly as they maneuvered the boy toward the door; Leon stepped to open it, and preceded them down the hall toward the washroom, to the door on the opposite wall.

The room was dim, thin curtains drawn over the window to the front of the tavern. Two sets of single-person bunks, and Gwaine cooperated with Percival to lower Merlin to the one on the left, positioning his limbs for him with a sort of rough gentleness.

"I wouldn't see him made a slave," Arthur said from the door – and Percival couldn't tell if he was addressing the two of them, or his own man Leon. "But what if he's not capable of performing what we need, on this trip."

"Arthur… all day yesterday," Leon answered, surprising Percival a bit with his defense of a stranger. "And then he didn't sleep – and then he did more conjuration today." As Percival straightened from his crouch by the bunk, Leon made a gesture that included the three of them; he assumed in reference to their similar and obviously conjured clothing. "Give him a chance."

"I want to leave tomorrow," Arthur told him, as if reminding him. "If we're wrong…"

"We'll be passing through the garrison of Ealdor on our way north – if we need to supplement his magic buying supplies there, we can."

Percival remembered that Merlin had said, his mother had been stationed in Ealdor before his birth. And, it was nearly the opposite direction from Dubois. He hoped when Merlin woke, it would occur to him to ask more questions about Arthur and his trip.

Arthur nodded in response to Leon's suggestion, his eyes remaining on Merlin's motionless form, before he raised them to Percival. "How long will he be out?"

"I don't know," Percival said. It hadn't happened before, that Merlin passed out asleep midday; the few times they'd seen him noticeably drained, he just dragged until night-time before collapsing into sound sleep. "I'll stay with him, though."

"And let me know when he wakes. We won't be far." Arthur glanced over his shoulder as Tristan sauntered into view in the corridor behind him.

"What about you?" Tristan drawled, addressing Gwaine. "You need a nap, too, or you fancy getting a little training in?"

Gwaine looked at Percival – probably he was thinking the same thing. An opportunity to evaluate Arthur, or at least his men. The way a man fought could reveal quite a bit about him, after all – which was probably Tristan's aim in asking Gwaine, too. It was a good idea, if they were going to be traveling together, on a journey that would be – how had Arthur put it? – difficult and dangerous.

Percival raised an eyebrow at his friend in warning. "Play nicely."

Gwaine affected hurt feelings. "Always." Followed by the devilish grin where only Percival could see, before he followed the three strangers they were now contracted to as companions, out the door.

 **A/N: This conversation's not over yet, I promise. More Merlin &Arthur to come!…**

 **I forgot to say, the last-minute life-saving debt-redemption from Arthur's character to Merlin's, is taken from the book.**


	8. A Temporary Settlement of Affairs

**Chapter 8: A Temporary Settlement of Affairs**

The room was dim and warm and silent. Merlin stretched, feeling stiff-sore, but only mildly, like the sensation would ebb with movement.

So he rolled, and found himself alone on a lower bunk in a small strange room that smelled faintly of ale. Of course – the tavern. Arthur and the partnership and the trip. He twisted to bring his feet to the floor, and stood; the door was open, and he recognized the corridor. Washroom one way, the private dining-room the other. And at the end of the hall, a stair to the rest of the establishment.

He had an odd childish urge to run. To go home, to seek his mother's lap and Gaius' shoulder…

An arena-trial could not grant maturity, nor does it happen overnight. Just now, he had no home. He had two men he trusted, though he hadn't known them long, and a new partner he hoped would prove honorable. Serving Arthur was his only choice right now, for however long it took to satisfy his debt, even if it meant an eventual move to Dubois. Afterward, maybe he could still return to the idea of the medical clinic. He rather hoped to live a very long life, after all.

The dining-room was quiet, and empty save for Percival, standing casually at one of the windows that overlooked the back area. The three food-trays were nearly empty; Merlin snagged the heel of the last bread-loaf and began stuffing it with scraps of ham and crumbs of cheese. Percival spared him a glance that was unsurprised; the former soldier probably had heard him coming.

"You feel better?" the big man asked.

Merlin mumbled something affirmative through his first mouthful, and swallowed. "Did you and Gwaine get any sleep?"

"A couple hours, in turns. Arthur was interested in finding out what kind of fighters he'd gotten in his deal." Percival turned back to the window.

"What do you think of him?" Merlin asked curiously.

He was answered with a detachment that spoke of attention directed elsewhere. "He's skilled, but not tricky. Relentless, but not mean – for a first impression, I'd say I respect him… Merlin? You want to see this."

Percival turned sideways so Merlin could crowd in at the window – the one with a view unimpeded by the stairway. Merlin almost choked on his next bite.

Arthur and Gwaine.

If Merlin had thought Percival and Gwaine's sparring practice too complicated for his comprehension, he could barely follow the movements of this pairing. It was intricate and it was _fast,_ and Merlin breathed a little easier when he saw – of course – they were using only half-staves, not edged blades. Arthur had removed his tunic and both had rolled sleeves; Merlin noticed that Tristan and Leon stood together out of the way, watching and leaning toward each other as if to exchange an occasional comment.

Merlin could hear, faintly, the thwack of the staves as they met. Fast-fast-fast, weapons crossing overhead one moment, then down by their shins the next. Bodies darting in, jumping back, circling and twisting – now attacking, now defending, now ducking to avoid a blow entirely.

"Gwaine is the best I know," Percival said, leaving the window to open the door and wait for Merlin. "Which means, Arthur is _good_." Merlin followed him out on the stair, and as the two fighters fell back to catch their breath, he realized they'd interrupted the match for him, before a victor had been settled.

"Merlin!" Arthur called up in greeting, evidently in a good mood from the exercise; he had a crooked grin. "Care to try your hand?"

Tristan laughed outright, and Merlin suddenly wished for something heavy to drop on the golden-haired, over-confident… Percival moved to descend the stair; Merlin remembered the bruise still discoloring the big man's forearm, and repented his thought. Although, he could conjure rotten tomatoes…

That image put him in a better mood, to meet his new companions at the foot of the stair.

"I know I said we'd talk more later," Arthur said, accepting his tunic from Leon and shrugging into it. "But you slept a good long while, and if we want to settle with Morgana tonight so we can leave at dawn, we need to go there now." Merlin nodded though he suspected Arthur wasn't waiting for his agreement; he turned to the older blond fighter without pause. "Tristan, if you'll take Percival and Gwaine to the stables to secure additional mounts and gear, Leon can go with us."

As he adjusted the collar of the tunic over his shirt, Merlin noticed something that distracted him from an initial concern at being separated from his two friends. The skin on Arthur's neck behind and below his ear was unmarked. Not the symbol of a slave like the one that had faded and wrinkled on Gaius' neck, nor the military one that had been obliterated by the brand on Percival and Gwaine's.

"Merlin, if you're ready for this?" Arthur said, inclining his head.

He found if he lengthened his stride a bit, he could keep up with his new partner's faster pace; Leon behind them seemed to have no trouble, as if he was used to walking at Arthur's heels. Merlin watched Arthur's profile from the side of his eye, and wondered how long or intimate their association was.

"You're steward of your mother's garrison, right?" he asked.

Arthur hummed in confirmation, not slowing his steps or even taking his eyes from their constant perusal of the busy street and people around them.

"Don't misunderstand me, I have no intention of talking you out of your generous offer, but…" At that word, Arthur cast him a sharpish glance, and Merlin hesitated, but only briefly. "I'm not sure my calculations match yours. I can't see where saving on supplies balances horses and food for three extra men."

Arthur looked over his shoulder at Leon, without answering Merlin, and without faltering a single step.

In the absence of rebuff, Merlin continued, "Except that you said… supplies, _mostly_."

There was a small sideways smile on Arthur's face when he answered, as though he approved of Merlin's query, rather than the converse. "I also said difficult and dangerous," Arthur reminded him. "I had more or less decided upon hiring a conjuror to accompany us, but the problem is, to find someone strong and capable and fast who would be willing to work _with_ us, for a reasonable sum."

Merlin named his debt to Morgana, without bothering to hide his sarcasm. "That's _reasonable_?"

"Under the circumstances, yes. I was impressed with your performance in the arena – that wall, and getting your opponents to surrender."

"That was – not because I saw advantages to owning slaves," Merlin objected. Arthur's arm blocked him from stepping out into the path of a cart-horse, then dropped. "I just – didn't want anyone to die if I could stop it happening."

"I hope, it was not only a lucky accident," Arthur told him. "Or if it was, that it was the sort of luck that follows you."

Not likely, Merlin reflected, considering the fire. He said carefully, "And, where do you need it to follow me to?"

"Out of Camelot." Arthur faced him fully, and Merlin stopped, realizing they'd arrived at the square in front of Morgana's establishment. "Beyond its borders, I mean. Into the unmapped White Mountains in the north. I am certain there will be advantages to having a conjuror among our party, and after seeing how your men fight, I'm happy to have them along, as long as…"

"As long as what?" Merlin said, both suspicious and defensive on behalf of his friends, and didn't care if Arthur recognized it.

"What were they in prison for?" Arthur said. Merlin scowled and set his jaw, and the other pointed out, "You've known them less than a month – you may trust them now, but it doesn't mean I can take your word for it."

"It was self-defense," Merlin said. "A barracks fight, and not one they started."

"But they killed their man?" Arthur looked at Leon for another moment of silent communication, and Merlin remembered, Leon was a soldier and Arthur had been raised in a garrison. "Well. At least it wasn't theft or desertion."

He opened his mouth to protest hotly – and realized just in time that Arthur's tone of dry sarcasm was a joke, not an insult.

"Merlin, it would probably be a good idea if you waited here a moment," Arthur said. "I haven't got that much coin, but with a letter of credit drawing on my mother's funds in Dubois, Morgana's clerks will give me the amount of your debt. Then you can carry it right back in again – theoretically there shouldn't be an issue with our arrangement, but I… wouldn't put it past Morgana to try to make one."

"Or more," Leon said dryly, and Merlin wondered if they knew Morgana somehow.

Arthur snorted and spun on his heel to enter the open double-door, the scrutiny of the impassive slave-guards giving him no pause. He disappeared, and the waiting silence between the two of them left behind was awkward, until Leon spoke.

"Does that sort of thing happen to you often?" he said solicitously. "That level of exhaustion?"

Merlin kept his eyes on the dim interior of the lobby. "No, it's just – I've been pushing myself, lately." He understood why Leon was asking; they needed to know if they could depend on him, and he was a stranger. But it did feel quite personal, so he said, hoping Leon was not the sort to take offense where none was intended, "I couldn't help noticing, Arthur doesn't have…"

Leon turned to catch Merlin's fingers touching his own unmarked neck, below and behind his ear, and answered readily, "No, he never was tested for the military, or went to the slave-block." Apparently this was no secret, so Leon was not betraying any trust. "His mother purchased him from the crown directly, on his coming of age, and gave him his freedom."

Merlin snorted at the ease and privilege encompassed in the single sentence, and wondered if Arthur had even made the trip to Camelot, that year. "So he's a freedman."

"A lord, actually," Leon corrected without offense. "His mother is the queen's cousin, Lady Ygraine."

"Lord Arthur," Merlin said. How perfect. "So how did he learn to fight like that?"

"His father," Leon said, and there was a smile in his hazel eyes when Merlin glanced at him, interested - and not only because of the recent conversation he'd had with Percival and Gwaine on the topic. "Is a general at the garrison. Trained me also, though I passed the military-test a few years before Arthur's coming-of-age."

"What's he like? Arthur's father?" Merlin said curiously.

"Unforgiving. No one ever pushed my limits on the field the way Uther did. But he's fair, and honest, and loyal. A clever fighter. Arthur's quite like him."

"Why did you come to Camelot?" Merlin wondered.

Leon smiled. "Tristan and I volunteered to accompany our steward, and attend upon our commander's son."

Volunteers. Good to know. Merlin said, "But why did Arthur come to Camelot?"

"Royal decree."

Merlin was startled at the sound of Arthur's voice, close enough to have overheard at least his last question. He was further startled when Arthur shrugged out of the shoulder-strap of a smallish satchel to hang it over Merlin's – and it was _heavy_. The gold.

"Then why are you leaving Camelot?" he said, focusing on adjusting balance to compensate for the extra weight.

"Royal decree." Arthur was amused, but evasive. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

Merlin dropped his eyes from Arthur's, hearing Gaius' voice many times, proud-annoyed. _So many questions, my boy_.

"Yes," he said belligerently, and made his way carefully to the lending-house.

If the door-guards thought the swift return of the gold by another man odd, they neither said nor indicated such. Pausing on the threshold, Merlin wondered which clerk had gathered the sum for Arthur – to avoid that woman and any complications – then decided he would approach the one he was most familiar with, the woman with the braid who'd come to him only that morning. The gold in the bag dragged the strap uncomfortably over bones and muscles of his shoulder; he didn't want to linger.

"Here," he said, a little breathlessly. The gold chinked softly in the satchel as he let it drop the last few inches to her desk. "My debt, paid in gold, paid in full."

She looked at him with round eyes, looked at the satchel, then rose from her seat behind the desk before twisting the toggle of the opening flap. "It'll be just a moment, while I confirm the amount?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He was impatient to be free – and rather wished he'd never met Morgana – but this was important, so he was polite. "I'll wait."

He ignored the glances sent his way – by all three clerks, and at least three other customers or clients or whatever Morgana called them – and the urge to send his own darting out the opened door to Arthur and Leon for reassurance and confidence.

Finally she was finished counting and weighing, and wrote a short note on a parchment before rolling it. She heated a length of red wax in the flame of her desk-lamp, smeared it over the seam of the scroll, and stamped it with a seal. Handing it to him, she didn't immediately release it, but lifted her gaze to his face deliberately.

"Good luck," she said quietly – just as she had when he and Percival and Gwaine had walked out of the building with the original loan in the cask, but this time, he could tell that she meant it.

"Thanks," he said.

Merlin mounted the enclosed stair, thinking it strange that so much had changed in only a week, since he'd last trod these steps. He'd gone from giddy success to utter failure – but from one hope to another entirely.

There was no enormous slave ready to toss unfortunate clients in view this visit, either. And still only Morgana's door open. She was seated at the desk, bent over her writing; he stopped on the threshold and rapped one knuckle on the open door.

Long wavy locks of raven hair slipped over one shoulder as she raised her head – green eyes widened and red lips parted in surprise – and he felt nothing. Not awe, not eagerness, not gratitude. At the very least, she had called in the loan without even giving him a chance to speak or bargain, to come up with another plan of repayment.

"You're early," she said. "I thought you would come in the morning. Are your slaves downstairs? It is regrettable that I had to claim your surety – but you cannot hold slaves if you are sold as one to pay your debts."

And that was not something he'd thought of - that Percival and Gwaine would be sold to other owners as well. How much profit would she have made? More than the interest on his loan, he was sure. But the question that bothered him was, _when_ had she thought of that.

"Tell me something," he said, slipping into the room along the angle of the open door, away from the guest chairs. "Do you honestly believe you gave me a fair chance to succeed, and repay the loan? Do you honestly believe I _cannot_ make good, even under different terms?"

Morgana's apologetic smile dropped abruptly, as she rose behind her desk, all ten fingers planted as if for emphasis or support. "You lost everything in that fire," she said. "How do you suppose –"

"Not everything," he interrupted. "Not my skill, not my knowledge. Not my magic. Not the abilities and loyalty of my friends."

"Your slaves," she spat. "High time you were one of them."

The invective barely touched him; he'd heard and experienced the same sort of unreasonable prejudice most of his life. What he felt was _disappointment_ to hear the same from her. One of the doors further down the hall opened, and he heard footsteps approaching. Maybe she'd alerted that client-tossing slave; he didn't care, but the idea of even a single-person audience calmed him.

"Tell me one more thing." He gripped the scroll in his hand for courage. "When."

"When what?" she demanded.

"Did you think of this on the day of the citizen-trials? During that first week before you spoke to me at the party? That night? After you gave me the gold? Did you look for an opportunity to –"

The person approaching stepped into view at the doorway – angled to face him, but still moving further into the room. A woman in gray silk, close as her skin, wrists to neck. A woman with sharp features and sharper brown eyes. With long blonde curls and a triumphant smirk.

 _Oh._

She tossed her head a bit, circling the desk to stand at Morgana's side – and then their facial appearance and expression and bearing were uncannily similar. Merlin recalled one of the clerks saying, _the twins_. Now he knew what she'd meant.

He finished, "Or did you _make_ the opportunity?"

"Nothing personal, boy," the blonde told him, her lip curling in disdain. "Just business."

Merlin shook his head in disbelief. They would have gotten away with it – they _had_ gotten away with it, insofar as they would never face charges or punishment. There wasn't any proof beyond his word – which would never be taken over theirs.

"Your landlord friend," he said, and spoke the name of the heavy redhead. "Did she know beforehand, or did you burn her property without warning?"

The blonde's sneer widened. "She's been wanting to rebuild there for years."

"I'm tired of this conversation," Morgana said – to her sister, not Merlin. "Send for one of the slaves to escort our newest acquisition to the auction holding-house."

"Of course, sister." The blonde flounced her skirts around the desk again.

"That won't be necessary," Merlin said. He held up the scroll. "I haven't come to turn myself in." He stepped just close enough that Morgana could reach the scroll stretching out her arm, as he was doing. "Perhaps you can loan this to your friend to cover her costs of rebuilding."

Morgana broke the seal and read, a tiny frown-line appearing between her fine black brows. Her twin craned over her shoulder, glaring intensely at the writing. "What is it?"

"You found a new sponsor," Morgana said out loud. She looked at Merlin, while her sister looked at her, as if trying to calculate changes to other plans. "Who? _Who_ was willing to pay this sum to help you?"

Merlin was quite sure they could find that out. He was less sure about the dynamics between these two, and Lady Ygraine – days distant from the capital, and the gold not yet transferred – and her cousin the queen. But he and Arthur, at least, would by out of the city tomorrow, and no one could take possession of him by legal or illegal means.

"I don't believe I have to tell you that," he said, retreating slowly but surely. "I've repaid you your money, and I'm still a free citizen." Without papers, but he could easily obtain a copy from the city's records, if it became necessary. "I don't believe I owe you any thanks, and I don't believe I care if your evening is particularly fine, or not. I shall be perfectly happy, never to see you again."

He was out to the hallway, now. Both sisters looked furious, but there were no Percival-sized guard-slaves in sight; he wondered now if maybe that had been a bluff. Neither said a word, either to call him back or hasten him on his way.

Merlin felt a bit disconnected from his body, or his legs at least, trotting fast and clumsy down the stair. Like the day he'd fought and gained Percival and Gwaine, tucked his paper-prize under his arm and headed home, because he was directionless otherwise.

Because a stranger had said to him, _Start with going home_.

He didn't have a home anymore. And the stranger was no longer a stranger.

Arthur and Leon, in cross-armed conversation, turned as he stalked toward them. And if Arthur hadn't caught his arm, he might've stalked right between them and kept on going.

"What happened?" Arthur demanded.

At the same time, Leon said, "Is everything all right?"

"They did it on purpose," Merlin told them, staring blankly past Arthur's face at one of Camelot's sunset-gilded buildings. "I can't believe… they did it all… on purpose."

Leon questioned leadingly, " _They_?"

"The loan," Arthur guessed, and he didn't sound surprised. "And the fire. Morgana – and Morgause."

Then Merlin looked at him. "You know her? You know them?"

"I have a nodding acquaintance with the family," Arthur said.

And for a split second, Merlin _suspected_ – before he remembered Morgana demanding, Who. No, of course Arthur was not part of their plan to ruin him – instead he'd _thwarted_ their plan to ruin him.

On purpose?

"Did you know?" Merlin said, taking a half-step closer to Arthur, and squeezing his hands on his hips to keep them occupied in his rare distant outrage. "When I said Morgana – and then you decided to help –"

"I've heard rumors," Arthur said, unmoved by Merlin's temper. "Morgana makes the deal, Morgause enforces it."

"I saw her there, the night of the fire. Morgause – long curly blonde hair?" Arthur nodded corroboration of Merlin's description. "She looked at me and _smiled_ – she set the fire, didn't she?"

Arthur set his hand on Merlin's shoulder and turned him, pressing him to continue walking. "I would be very careful about making accusations without proof, if I were you. I'm as certain that there's no proof linking Morgause to your fire, as I am that you're right about the cause. Legally, you have equal standing with her, as two citizens with a grievance between them. Actually… they have powerful friends and you, Merlin, fair or not, have a lot of prejudice against you."

"You're saying we just have to let it go," Merlin said, not quite sure how he felt about that. Still angry – maybe a bit scared at how close they had maneuvered him to the slave-block – a bit relieved, then.

"Unless you're prepared to challenge them to a trial by combat," Arthur said, his tone making it clear that he had spoken in jest. "No – _patience_. The first and most important lesson of warfare."

"This isn't a war," Merlin objected. No, his first time in the arena was bad enough – he couldn't imagine facing a woman and a fellow conjuror.

"Isn't it?" Arthur said. "A game, then, if you prefer – but there are still winners and losers." He paused at a cross-street, and dropped his hand from Merlin's shouder. "Here's where I leave you. You go on with Leon, back to the tavern, get a full meal and a good night's sleep. I'll see you first thing in the morning."

Merlin watched him walk away – head up, shoulders straight, eyes taking in everything around – confident. He recognized the soldier's carriage Percival and Gwaine had tried to drill into him, and wondered if that was reason enough to trust him, as instinct inclined.

Probably he didn't have a choice, whether to stay with Arthur, not much more whether to obey or not, til his debt was paid. But to be glad for the way things turned out, to get to know Arthur – and Leon and Tristan – the way he'd done with Percival and Gwaine…

Maybe, he allowed. Maybe the master-slave relationship that didn't matter anymore between him and his two friends, wouldn't matter anymore between him and Arthur. Eventually.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"No, I'm not saying we need to warn Merlin, I only think we need to keep an eye on –"

Gwaine broke off as the outer door opened into the private dining-room they still occupied, in the absence of orders from the tavern-keeper to do otherwise. He straightened in his perch on the corner of the table next to Percival, looking over his shoulder to watch Leon and Merlin enter. Leon appeared calm and unruffled, to Percival's unfamiliar regard, but he could tell that something had bothered Merlin.

"You lost Arthur?" Gwaine said, a joke and a question.

"He's staying at the palace," Leon explained. "They had accommodations for us there, but not all of us, so…" He shrugged, and spread his hands to indicate the tavern as their secondary option. "Where's Tristan?"

"Downstairs. Wetting his whistle before dinner." And normally, Gwaine would be right beside him, betting on various coin-or-favor challenges, but for the older man's aggressively lone-wolf attitude.

"I'll see if the kitchen minds sending up another couple of trays," Leon said, eyeing the cleared tabletop on his way to the door, and showing no hesitation over leaving the three of them alone.

Merlin wasn't the sort to abandon his end of a bargain, once he'd gotten his benefit, but would Leon – or Arthur – know that, at this point? Maybe. Percival had trusted the boy in less than a minute, after all.

"What's the matter?" Percival said to Merlin as soon as the door shut behind Leon.

The boy was ahead of him, pacing toward them with an explosive, "You're not going to _believe_ this!"

"What happened?" Gwaine asked, hitching himself around to face Merlin more directly.

"They did it on purpose," Merlin announced, with a flashing blue glance between them that invited them to join him in outrage. "Morgana has a sister who's her partner or something, I saw her the night of the fire. She was watching, not helping, and she smiled at me and left and I'm pretty sure they intended all along to take possession of me as the surety. Of _us_."

Gwaine said a word that would have gotten him flogged if a woman had heard it. "I _can't_ believe it," he announced.

Merlin, for his part, seemed to feel a little better for having shared that news with them. "I don't understand that," he said, a bit mournfully. "Why someone can be so _mean_ , so… greedy."

Percival reflected, from what he knew of Merlin's life, it had been fairly insular. His mother, who probably had been a helluva woman, and his mentor, who probably had been the best father either of them could have hoped for. "That sort of thinking and behavior is not limited to women," he cautioned Merlin. "It's more like… human nature."

Merlin huffed. "Arthur didn't think there was anything we could do about it." Gwaine grimaced like he was forced to agree. "Evidently he's familiar with the twins – one makes the deals, and the other enforces them, he said."

A thought entered Percival's mind, and he said slowly, "Morgana's twin, you said you saw her? Met her? Do they look alike, then?"

"Not really." Merlin snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Morgause has blonde hair, though she wears it like Morgana." Long and curly, Percival remembered from the night they met Morgana. And maybe Merlin was learning to read the two of them as well as they had come to understand him; he added, "Why?"

"Our fight in the alley." Percival clenched his fist, still feeling the ache of bruised muscles in his right forearm. "I caught a glimpse of the one on the rooftop. A woman with long curly yellow hair."

After a blank moment to process that information, Merlin sighed. "That was probably Morgause, then, too. With the gold stolen before we could invest it, Morgana could call in the surety like they planned."

"Why didn't you say?" Gwaine asked Percival, with a curious frown.

He shrugged. "I didn't get a _good_ look. No one I knew, and we couldn't have accused her anyway, not without admitting to the use of weapons, ourselves."

"He's right," Merlin told Gwaine. "It wouldn't have done any good, knowing a woman was involved, then."

For another moment, Percival debated whether or not to say anything, now that it didn't make any difference – but it might make a difference to _him_. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Merlin started to say.

"No, I mean – I didn't trust Morgana from the start," Percival went on. "I should have said something, it might have been a better idea to find a sponsor who _hadn't_ offered, to begin with."

His two friends had to think for a moment, reliving that night at dinner, the next day at the lending-house, glancing at each other.

"It's past now," Merlin decided, shaking his head.

"What does your feminine intuition tell you about Arthur, then?" Gwaine said, again combining a joke with a question. Percival stood and shoved him off the table to show his amusement.

"He hasn't told us everything – but I think I trust him being careful, right now, more than I'd trust him revealing every little detail," Merlin said slowly. "Leon said he was clever, but fair and honest, too. And… I trust Leon." He said it with the lilt of a question, and glanced at Percival, then Gwaine, for support of the sentiment.

"I don't see any reason not to, at this point," Percival added. Gwaine tried to say something about _feelings_ , and Percival punched his shoulder. Merlin started to chuckle – but not at them.

"What?" Gwaine demanded, rubbing his shoulder.

"It just occurred to me." Merlin's blue eyes danced with humor. "Now we don't have to worry about that missing thief trying again… And, they got back only the amount they gave us to begin with. Those five fighters – poor souls – they gambled with, was their loss."

Gwaine threw back his head to shout his laughter, and the door opened to admit Leon, balancing a tray on one hand, and Tristan behind him with another. And if Arthur's soldiers were curious about their amusement, neither asked.

"Dinner," Leon invited with a smile.

….*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen abandoned her desk for the more comfortably-cushioned chair in the corner of her bedchamber, ignoring also the footrest to tuck her feet up next to her. Even though the desk-lamp burned with a clearer and steadier light than the candle on one of the shelves of the bookcase next to her. Even though her leather-bound folio was more comfortable spread on the desktop rather than her knees.

She'd gotten through her notes on that day's meetings – some with individuals, some with corporate entities – and had turned a page to her schedule for the next day. Most of these entries were inked in a secretary's neat hand, rather than her own hurried scrawl detailing reminders for actions she'd agreed to take, or clarifications on arguments that hadn't yet been settled. All the issues the queen had begun passing to her after her coming-of-age – and there was that note about Merlin's desire to use the library; she was determined to be free when he came, if at all possible - and which she hadn't been able to give full attention to since Lancelot and Arthur's arrival.

But the last three days, since she'd set them the quest-challenge, she hadn't seen much of either man, as they made decisions and preparations. Lancelot had left that morning, and though Arthur had been missing from the noon meal, he'd been a quiet but polite presence at the royal table for dinner.

The soft and unexpected knock on her door startled her briefly, but she didn't even look up to call her availability, anticipating either a slave or clerk, or her mother again.

Therefore she was a bit taken aback when the current door-guard leaned into the opening to say, "Lord Arthur."

She gaped at him a moment, gathering her thoughts – nodded an affirmative – and realized she was receiving her suitor curled in her chair like a child with a story-book. Oh, well. Better than trying to leap up and tripping flat on her face.

Seeing her seated and using such a small light, he came a few steps closer than he might otherwise have done, and stood composed, with his hands clasped behind him.

"Lord Arthur," she greeted him with the formal title, but let a bit of playful friendliness creep into her voice, ready for whatever tone he wished to set for their conversation.

"I've chosen my quest," he said, with a quiet gravity that served to sober her without reproach. "I and my party will be leaving in the morning."

"Good luck, and be careful," she said, pushing away the instinct to apologize again. "I said the same to Lancelot as well."

"As did I, when I saw him off," Arthur said. Her eyebrows rose, and he added, "We did not speak of our goals or destinations, just – general good wishes."

"And now you're to leave."

"Yes." He ducked his head a degree to cast his eyes on her unused footstool, hesitated, then pointed at it and said, "May I?"

Gwen straightened, closing her ledger but keeping her place with her thumb, as he positioned the footstool a pace away, and straddled it, looking suddenly boyish for doing so.

"I hope that I haven't – deluded myself, or overstepped my bounds, in believing this challenge to be more than… acquisition of new curiosities, or judging your potential mates by objective means," he said carefully.

She opened her mouth to ask him to say nothing further, but he raised one hand to reassure and forestall her warning. His knowledge of her interest in prophecy, his abrupt acceptance of the challenge, made her suspect that he'd guessed at her deeper reasons for the challenge. She was glad for that, his understanding, but it also made her a bit nervous for the outcome, if he knew what she intended beforehand.

"I didn't want to leave without saying a proper and private goodbye. Life is… uncertain at best, and I wanted you to know, I accepted the risks of my choice freely." That took her a bit by surprise, as if he expected specific danger, possibly – it made her curious in an apprehensive way, what he had chosen as his object. "I also wanted to let you know about a certain member of my party." His tone changed to something lightly wry, and one corner of his mouth turned up. "I anticipate you finding out sooner or later, so I decided, best to tell you immediately and myself. Merlin will be traveling with me."

Gwen cocked her head, frowning. "Merlin – the citizen, Merlin? I thought he intended a medical clinic – he had a location, a loan…"

"I've… purchased his loan, essentially," Arthur said. "He was facing unforeseen complications, and we made an agreement."

Because – where Arthur was going was dangerous enough, he wanted a conjuror he could trust. And maybe he didn't know any of Camelot's female citizens who fit that description. But hs concern for the boy the day of the arena-trial made her trust his intention for the partnership with the younger man.

"Make sure you look after him," she couldn't help saying. "I assume his slaves are going with you as well?"

"They are." Arthur nodded, and leaned forward on the footstool. His eyes were mesmerizing in the candlelight, midnight blue with brilliant points of flickering flame. His lips were not as full as Lancelot's, but still made her _wonder_. "It will be early when we leave, so… this is farewell, my lady."

She was suddenly nervous that she'd set something uncontrollable into motion, in a rather simple but maybe desperate desire for outside proof, what was the right thing to do. But, she was the princess, the heir to the throne. Decisions and consequences were her responsibility, and her future. Depending on what Arthur and Lancelot brought back to Camelot.

He pushed abruptly to his feet and she swung her legs free of the chair's seat, laying her journal-book behind her as she stood as well.

"If you believe in the future, in fate and destiny –" she did not say, _prophecy_ – "then you believe, it will turn out as it was meant to, whatever happens."

"And may we still achieve our desires, in the face of destiny," he said.

 _What an odd thing to say_.

Her thought was interrupted when he gave her a little bow, before turning to stride to the door. But he'd gone three steps – four – before he stopped. Appeared to wrestle with himself a moment, then spun to face her again.

"There was something else?" she questioned.

"Yes – maybe. I… I know you were very careful to give Lancelot and I equal consideration and treatment – and if you feel my request betrays his trust in any way, then say so and I will accept that, with respect." He retraced his steps as he spoke, slowly and carefully, til he stood right before her and she had to look up to meet his eyes.

"What request?" Her voice sounded whisper-husky in her ears; the way he looked at her was making her heart pound and her skin tingle.

"If I don't – see you again –"

Gwen was touching him before she knew she intended to, stopping his words with her hand. "You will." She tried to instill confidence in him, his safety and success, with the repetition of the two words. "You will."

He captured and moved her hand, revealing his endearingly lopsided smile. "May I take a token with me, something to remember your good wishes by?"

She cast about in her mind for something appropriate – and yes it was fair, when she was asking him for an object to symbolize his suit, but now – "What did you have in mind?"

He shifted half a step closer, his smile gentled but his eyes almost fierce, dropping to her mouth –

Her lips parted on the inhaled realization , as his fingertips – uninvited! unpermitted! – brushed her cheeks and jawline, tipping her face up as he bent his head to kiss her.

It wasn't the same as Lancelot's at all. Initially tentative, almost reserved, he held back and she was too stunned to retreat or pursue, but then –

His mouth moved on hers, with hers – he wasn't generously giving her what she wanted, but sweetly coaxing her to explore, to allow his exploration.

A voiceless sigh escaped him, and she gasped a breath to realize he'd brushed her hair away from her shoulders, hands trailing down her back to pull her against him, his body all hard unfamiliar – exhilarating – muscle. Her hands on his chest, rather than pushing away, caressed upward and curled around his neck to keep him close.

Heat rose inside her like the first bubbles in a pot of water set to boil – and burst in her veins, behind her eyelids. She glimpsed what he meant when he spoke of his parents – that she could give and surrender and trust that his care would be tender and sweet. That she could let her knees go momentarily weak and know that he would hold her up, never thinking the worse of her for it.

And when she wanted control back and told him so with a little sound in the back of her throat, he'd catch her advance and let her take what she wanted, lifting onto her toes and pressing forward to taste him, warm and spicy, to test the strength of his body. The skin of his neck was so smooth she wondered if he felt like that everywhere…

She broke away, pulling back to stare at him, wide-eyed and panting. He was breathing hard also, and had to drag his gaze up from her mouth.

It was about what she wanted, yes. But it was supposed to be a rational decision about traits – internal and external – she wanted passed down to an heir, not about –

Not about –

Gwen gulped and closed her eyes, willing her sense and reason to return – moistening her lips involuntarily and it seemed to her she could still taste him and –

"I will definitely," he said throatily, making her shiver, "remember your good wishes."

His half-smile might have been arrogant and insulting, if it hadn't dropped so quickly, if he hadn't needed a steadying breath before he turned away as well. She felt giddy and proud, silly and beautiful, and couldn't help a returning smile as he glanced over his shoulder in closing the door.

"And I," she told the empty air, "will definitely remember _that_."

 **A/N: I think the only thing from the book in this chapter, was the revelation that certain elements of society were actively working to ruin and/or discredit the mc…**

 **Next chapter, the guys embark on the quest, and Gwen will start to unravel the conspiracy from her end (or so I plan, anyway)…**


	9. Forming Connections

**Chapter 9: Forming Connections**

"I've never ridden a horse before in my life," Merlin confided to Percival, under the cover of the others packing their last bits and pieces, adjusting and buckling and mounting.

His horse, a brown mare whose sides gleamed a bit reddish where they caught the light, turned her head as if to stare at him in one-eyed disillusionment. _Sorry_ , he thought at her, and her head swung around to face forward once again.

"It shouldn't be a problem," Percival said, quietly and privately, which Merlin appreciated – then gave him one of his rare wide grins. "For anyone but you, that is. By the time we get to the harder riding in the mountains, you'll have learned. For now – you'll probably only fall off if you fall asleep. And expect a bit of teasing about the soreness."

Soreness, Merlin mused glumly – but his mood dissipated quickly once legs and rear settled into the contours of the saddle, and Arthur led the party at a slow walk toward the city's north gate. It was exciting to feel a horse's latent strength and power underneath him, to view his city from a loftier perch and travel the streets with a minimum of effort on his part. The eyes of the people on him, on _them_ – slaves and citizens – in recognition, straightened his spine with pride, for the first time.

The three of them had each been given clothes for the journey, rough but sturdy and well-made, earth-colored trousers, lighter tan shirts, tunics of boiled leather that Merlin suspected might serve as protection at least, if not armor. Rations packed on their saddles that Leon assured him would last for a week. Comparing himself to the more muscular fighters – and taking into account his accustomed fare, with his mother and Gaius, and then with only his old tutor – Merlin privately guessed that his could last him two weeks, if necessary. Other than that, all bedding and cooking vessels or utensils, would be up to him. He was a bit nervous about conjuring items to order under the critical gaze of strangers – and one his employer – but in any case, it couldn't be as bad as the arena.

They passed through the city gates and Merlin's mare picked up her pace in response to the other mounts in the party following Arthur's leadership. For a good long while after, his thoughts were occupied by the novelty of the terrain.

He could see so far. Green squares of crop-land or pasture, divided by hedges or low stone walls, and even the road was at least half as busy as the city – women driving carts pulled by donkeys or goats, men bent under burdens, children chasing dogs or chivvying small flocks of various poultry.

Gradually left behind.

More than once he twisted to look back; they were definitely leaving the more prosperous areas closer to the city. Midmorning, there were ramshackle huts in clusters, weeds where there wasn't bare earth, trees where there weren't weeds.

"The kingdom's wealth," Leon commented over his shoulder, from ahead of Merlin and to his right, "is definitely centered around its cities."

That didn't sit right with Merlin, but he couldn't articulate why. But for the capital, Camelot's cities were all garrisons, holding the borders against enemies. On all sides, it seemed.

"Camelot doesn't have any allies," he said aloud, "because…"

Once again it was Leon who answered; Tristan riding abreast of him ignored Merlin to watch the party's left flank, and Percival and Gwaine were silent, behind Merlin. "Because they're ruled by kings."

He wondered, then, whether the kings resented Camelot's female-dominated society, or whether it was the other way around. He was trying to phrase that into a question that wouldn't sound ignorant or offensive, when Arthur glanced over his shoulder. He made a few incomprehensible signals with his right hand, reined in as Tristan trotted his gray-white mount around, then held his nearly-black horse in position, releasing it to return to the group's pace when he was alongside Merlin.

Merlin watched the golden-haired lord out of the corner of his eye, full of questions but feeling a bit reticent about asking. Knowing that Arthur was likely evaluating him, too.

"Conjuration takes," Arthur said casually, angling toward Merlin but not turning all the way to look at him directly, "energy and concentration, so I understand." He continued right over Merlin's hesitant murmur of corroboration, "Is that something you think you can do while riding, or would you have to dismount?"

"It depends on what I'm conjuring," Merlin answered, glad Arthur's query wasn't more personal. "If it's something very large, or very heavy – I don't know how the horse would react."

"Weapons," Arthur said. "Possibly armor. Can you do that?" Merlin shifted uncomfortably, and Arthur added, "Not that I think we'll have to defend ourselves within Camelot, bandits rarely get more than a few miles inside the border, and fugitives will avoid us just because of our number. But if it's something you need to practice, it might be good to get that out of the way before we cross out of the queen's territory."

"Yes," Merlin said, a bit relieved. "It's always easiest doing something to a pattern I'm familiar with – things I've already handled, seen, tasted, and so on –"

"And that hasn't been weaponry," Arthur guessed with a mild irony that served to raise Merlin's defensiveness.

"No." He watched Arthur's profile as they jogged along, and decided to relent a bit. "It's also… easier to do things that are… simpler, in their construction."

"So – shields before armor. And chainmail is right out?" Merlin cringed at the thought of conjuring those thousands of tiny metal links into any kind of a garment, much less five – or six. "All right, never mind," Arthur said, reading his answer in a single swift glance. "Would have been nice, but the cost of buying real – and then the questions and curiosity – would be too great. So… What can you do?"

Merlin wedged the knot of his reins under his left thigh, cupped his hands together and concentrated. The blade appeared as he drew his hands apart; he glanced from tip to cross-guard and then hilt to make sure that his intent manifested correctly.

And the intent stare of Arthur's blue eyes startled him. "What?"

"Nothing, just… It is true, your eyes turn gold. I've never seen that before, though I've read…" Arthur seemed to realize Merlin's discomfort, and twitched off his intensity, focusing instead on the blade wavering in Merlin's hands with the gait of his mare. "That's not bad," he said approvingly. Merlin caught Leon's encouraging smile – and Tristan's ill-tempered scowl – before the two soldiers faced forward again. "May I?"

Merlin twisted to hand the sword to Arthur hilt-first, and the lord hefted, swung, spun, and lifted it to squinted along the length, one-handed, and without so much as a twitched-ear response from his mount. "That's Percival's," Merlin ventured to explain, glancing over his shoulder to his big friend's grin of anticipation. "Just – tell me what you'd like the same, what you want different…"

"Really," Arthur said, still studying the sword, and Merlin couldn't tell what he was thinking. He gave the weapon a little toss, and caught the blade in his gloved hand near the point, letting the hilt fall back toward Percival – whose waiting hand was ready.

Merlin concentrated again; Gwaine's was different. Lighter and more slender, but an inch or so longer, was how he preferred his sword. Without speaking, Merlin handed that one to Arthur also, who tested it before passing it back to Gwaine.

"We'll have to talk about sheaths, too," Arthur remarked.

"Where we're going," Gwaine raised his voice to address Arthur, "you expect we'll use these things on a daily basis, or is it more of a… precaution?"

For a moment Merlin wondered if Arthur had even heard Gwaine's question. Then the lord turned his golden head to meet Merlin's curious gaze squarely.

"Beyond our northern border, and the garrison of Ealdor," Arthur said slowly – and if he noticed Merlin's violent start of surprise, he didn't let on. "Through the White Mountains. There are tales of wild tribes, and monsters. I hope not daily –" he emphasized the word with a mocking backward glance for Gwaine, "but I do think we'll need them."

He gathered the reins in both hands, shifting his seat like he intended to take the lead again, and Merlin leaned toward him, reaching as if to grasp his sleeve, without actually touching him. "We're going past Ealdor?"

"We're going through Ealdor," Arthur corrected. He spoke casually, but his blue eyes were keen, and Merlin retracted his hand. "It'll probably be the last place we can sleep in beds and taste anything but our own cooking, that'll be worth a few extra coins. Why?"

"Oh, my… mother was stationed in Ealdor," he stammered. "Once."

Arthur eyed him, but asked nothing further, and after another moment of Merlin's awkward silence, he made a ambiguous noise – and signaled his mount to increase its pace, past Tristan into the lead. And as Tristan exchanged positions with their leader, Leon dropped back next to Merlin.

"How are you getting on with her?" he said conversationally.

"Who?" Merlin said.

Leon smiled. "Your mare. Percival said he guessed you didn't have much opportunity for the sort of riding we're used to on garrison patrols."

"No," Merlin agreed, wryly thankful that both soldiers had been so charitable toward his inexperience. "She's lovely, though."

"Unfortunately, there's no way to get used to riding except to suffer through it," Leon sympathized. "Have you ever been north to Ealdor?"

Merlin reminded himself, _private_ conversation was probably going to be rare, on this excursion. "No, I've… never been outside the city."

"Your first journey will be – memorable, I think," Leon said, with optimistic tact. "Arthur mentioned he'd like you to conjure weapons?"

"And sheaths," Merlin said, frowning a little. Percival and Gwaine had sparred with their weapons for a while, before he'd dismissed the conjuration; he'd never done sheaths to hold and carry the swords, before.

"I can help you with that," Leon offered. "Just, let me know if you're getting tired?"

It wasn't as hard as Merlin feared. Really, when it came down to it, he needed only to conjure a tough sort of leather around the blade, and then include straps so it could be tied to saddle or belt.

"That's quite handy to be able to do," Leon commented, as Merlin dismissed the last of his failed attempts with a careless toss, and Gwaine and Percival settled their sheathed weapons behind them. "Now, as I'm fairly rubbish with a sword – how are you with bows and arrows?"

Not very good, it turned out. There was more to a good bow than the shape; it was all about materials. And a fletched arrow, Merlin could just, not make happen. Perhaps if he'd done it for real once or twice… Merlin appreciated that Leon didn't coddle him about the truth of his disastrous attempts, but the older fighter never lost patience, either. He finally suggested, crossbow bolts. A shorter-range projectile, but easier than fletched arrows. With a little direction, Merlin could pull bolts out of thin air one every other second.

But for conjuring a crossbow. There Merlin stuck again. The bow and string didn't matter quite so much as a longbow evidently, but the firing mechanism totally eluded him.

Merlin was tiring – in body and magic – and frustrated, and conscious that his activity was a focus of attention for the other four as they rode through the countryside. Regardless, he bit his tongue and tried to understand what it was he was missing, as Leon pointed out the flaws of his last effort, leaning sideways in the saddle next to Merlin.

Percival spoke from Merlin's other side. "You can break that down pretty easily. Are you as good at assembling one?"

Leon looked past Merlin at the big man, inspiration and hope showing on his face. "I am."

"What if he conjures the pieces, and you put it together?" Percival suggested.

Leon smiled at Merlin, lifting his eyebrows. "How about trying that, once?"

A couple of the more intricate pieces took Merlin several tries to master, but when Arthur called a dismount for a quick noontime meal-and-rest, Leon was satisfied with the result of his weapon, and Merlin was happy enough at that, to ignore his aches and pains.

It wasn't a long break. Travel fast, Arthur had said. Gwaine, Percival, and Leon had all asked how he was doing, and he replied cheerfully, but in trying to keep attention off his own discomfort, he noticed Arthur and Tristan arguing. Quiet, and intense – the older soldier resisting some order Arthur felt compelled to give. It ended with Tristan's acquiescence – Merlin wasn't surprised – and they two were the last to mount as the party continued the journey again into the afternoon.

Merlin thought he'd guessed what the issue was, when he found himself beside the oldest of their group – ahead of Percival and behind Arthur, behind Leon and Gwaine in the lead. Wondering what issue the oldest of the soldiers, had with him personally.

"Swords," Tristan said shortly, not even cutting his eyes toward Merlin.

"Excuse me?" Merlin still did not know what to think of Tristan. He was quiet, but had a sense of humor, though it was sarcastic and even bitter sometimes. Tristan had made no effort to get to know any of the three of them – yet he'd volunteered to accompany and protect Arthur to the capital.

"Two of them. Slender, curved, shorter than the one you gave your big slave."

Merlin wanted to object, to remind the older man that he knew, and therefore should use, Percival's name. But Percival was right behind them – if he took offense, he could say something – and he didn't. Would he feel like Merlin was tacitly taking the master's role, to say something – would he assume Merlin should? Even glancing back would feel awkward, and Merlin resented Tristan for that.

So he said nothing, tucking his reins out of his way, and focused on creating sharp curved steel out of thin air.

He could understand Leon's need for a specific result in the weapon he favored; he appreciated Leon's concern for the difficulty, and energy it required, his gratitude when it was accomplished. But Tristan remained unsatisfied, and unhelpful, snapping out a single terse criticism and tossing each offered blade contemptuously to the ditch, where Merlin had to silently dismiss the rejected conjuration, so as not to leave them lying there for the next full day.

Too long. Too short. Not curved enough. Too curved. Curve too close to the point – misshapen point – curve too close to the hilt, which was also all wrong. Smaller cross-guard. Thinner cross-guard – no, not so thin. Leather-wrapped hilt. Braided leather – which Merlin had to twist from three slender strips himself – no, just cross-hatched… No, that wasn't right either.

With Leon Merlin had felt encouraged and respected – his frustration was the complexity of the weapon itself and his desire to please. With Tristan, he felt like his best was never going to be good enough, like it was _him_ that the older soldier found fault with, not just the conjurations.

Finally, Arthur twisted around in his saddle, bracing himself with one hand on its back, to loose a stern glare directly at Tristan. And Merlin had the distinct impression that Arthur had been fully aware of what was going on, and that he'd let it happen.

Tristan said belligerently – to Arthur, rather than Merlin – "One of them has to be _left_ -handed."

Merlin was so angry he wanted to cry. Instead he focused, concentrated, trying to _feel_ the way a hilt would need to be different for his off hand, and handed the weapon over, exhausted.

Arthur hadn't faced forward, letting his near-black mount follow along with his fellows carrying Leon and Gwaine. He watched Tristan clench the reins in his teeth, tense in the saddle, and sling both wickedly-curved blades around him simultaneously, with a sinister hiss of steel slicing air. Merlin's mare sidled a bit nervously, but otherwise held her pace and position.

Tristan spat out his reins and said sarcastically to Merlin, "Is it going to take all day every time?"

His answer was the two tough-leather tie-strap sheaths – perfectly curved – that would secure the soldier's new weapons to his saddle. Tristan grunted, accepting them with a snatch, then urged his gray-white mount to pass both Arthur and Gwaine to take the lead again.

Merlin let his body slump, chin bobbing to his chest, feeling the ache of unaccustomed riding in bones and muscles, and the drain of his magic. For a moment he wondered if it was worth it – the demand, the attitude, trusting a stranger after he'd just been betrayed by a stranger… Then he decided, it would be like the young mother with the little girl who'd burned her foot. He wouldn't give up trying to coax acceptance from his new companions.

"All right, there?" Arthur said from his left. Merlin opened his eyes and turned his head just enough to bring the other into focus, but otherwise did not try for a straighter posture. "Not going to… spontaneously _fall_ asleep?" He made a diving motion with his hand which Merlin assumed was himself tipping headfirst off his horse.

"What do you want?" Merlin said tiredly.

"Glory, fame, and honor," Arthur said dryly. "And to make four or five more leagues before we camp for the night."

"No, I mean – a sword, as well?"

Arthur's head whipped around to study him, blue eyes narrowed – and Merlin had no idea what he'd said to provoke such a response. "Oh, you mean… No, I can wait til tomorrow for that. Like I said, I don't believe we'll need to use our weapons this side of the border, but it's a good thing if you already know what each man wants and can make it for him quickly."

Merlin snorted. "Quickly."

Arthur's lips quirked as he directed his gaze forward to Tristan. "About that. It isn't personal."

"The last person who said that to me," Merlin spoke deliberately, "was Morgause."

Arthur's smile vanished. He watched the back of his oldest soldier a moment more, then glanced behind, as if to gauge how close Percival was. Merlin did the same, and was mildly surprised to see Percival rein his mount back a few paces, giving them space and privacy without offense.

"Leon and Tristan weren't at the arena to see what you did, that day," Arthur said, with an air of explanation or excuse. "And I wasn't exaggerating the risks of this trip."

Merlin wondered, why the queen had sent Arthur, rather than a female citizen or officer, and why then with no magical support. He opened his mouth to ask, but Arthur's next comment drove the question right out of his mind.

"Tristan can conjure, you see." Arthur glanced over at him. "And, if you value my mother's money paying your debt, you won't breathe a word of this to anyone, because he will kill me. At least, in a fit of temper, he'd try."

Merlin studied Arthur again. Why tell a stranger, then, such a secret – and he realized, Arthur was testing him. Trusting him, to know if he could trust him, maybe as a prelude to revealing more about this journey that might not be normal or ordinary, after all. And another blue glance told him, Arthur knew Merlin had caught on to that fact.

"Flowers," Arthur said, with another sideways smile. "And _only_ , flowers. Any bloom or blossom you could name or describe. Gorgeous stuff, I've seen it - but nothing to take to the arena for citizenship."

"You're kidding," Merlin said, half-expecting the lord to laugh at Merlin for beginning to believe, and admit the joke.

Instead, Arthur shook his head. "When Tristan was young, he fell in love. A junior officer, not much for conjuration herself, but a terror with a blade, and her smile… I still remember her smile." Merlin asked wordlessly, eyebrows raised, and Arthur explained, "I was seven years old. The two of them used me as a messenger. Back and forth, over the course of their affair."

Merlin chuckled, trying to imagine the dignified lord as a child, a golden-haired rascal with a crooked grin – and found he could, easily. "What happened?"

"She transferred." Merlin said nothing – because really, didn't that explain it all? – and after a careful moment, Arthur added, "It was several more years before I learned… She was in love with him, too. Asked for the transfer before… she got him into trouble over their… relationship."

In Merlin's imagination, the young officer with the memorable smile – the young soldier conjuring flowers for her – the little boy who may have looked quite like the soldier's son, himself – changed. And Merlin saw Hunith young, with a memorable – sorrowful – smile herself. Some faceless soldier, desperately in love but unable to say so – and himself, watching enthralled as his father conjured flowers for his mother.

He hid his cringe at the pang of longing and loss that sent spiking through his chest.

"It's unfair," he blurted to Arthur. "All of it. Magic doesn't make you a better person. Any more than – being born male, makes you dangerous. They fear us and we mistrust them and every citizen is a killer and we're all told, because it's necessary. And we have no allies, and marriages are nearly unheard of and how can that be a good thing?"

Arthur's expression of surprise caught him up short with the realization that he'd let his mouth move faster than his judgment, and he shut it firmly.

After a moment, Arthur criticized mildly, "Again with the questions, Merlin."

No wonder Morgana thought he belonged in slavery, Merlin thought glumly, as Arthur moved his mount past the three ahead of them, into the lead – though at least he hadn't positioned himself abreast of Tristan, to tell him of the conversation. He was subversive, all of a sudden. Was that what happened when one became a man? He couldn't remember minding the inequality of genders, as a child.

Then again, without that inequality to separate two people who had trusted each other enough to fall in love – even without knowing if that had been his mother's situation, or not – he might have known his father. The other side of that was, then he wouldn't have known Gaius. But without a citizen-trial, he wouldn't have needed Gaius – and he wouldn't have met Gwaine and Percival…

Who had moved up to take Arthur's position next to him, with a questioning look for Merlin's wellbeing.

"Riding," Merlin informed him, "gives you too much time to think."

Percival's square face split into one of his rare boyish grins. "That is so, sir."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"My lady?" The younger of Gwen's two secretaries, a shy uncertain girl only a year or two into a citizenship that sometimes still seemed to surprise her, was pale – and probably trembling – over her interruption of the princess. Even though that was her job, upon occasion, she was new enough to the job, and probably the palace, to doubt Gwen's reactions.

"What is it, Sefa?" she said, setting her quill back in its stand.

"Your lady mother demands your presence immediately," the younger girl said, dropping her gaze to the floor near her feet, hands nervously smoothing the black tunic she wore over her crisp white shirt, down to the black skirt that brushed her boot-tops.

 _Immediately_ was unusual. And coupled with _demands_ … Gwen rose with a sigh, straightening the folds of her own bronze silk gown, and quirked a finger for her secretary to follow her.

Everyone's loyalty was first to the queen, and everyone knew that. Questions would be answered honestly, no information would be withheld. Things Gwen did not want her mother to know, she did not share with maid or secretary. But her personal employees' loyalty was to her second – from everyone _but_ the queen, those secrets or details would be kept.

"Is the queen alone?" she asked as they walked at a decent pace – haste was unseemly, but delay would not be tolerated – toward her mother's office.

"No, my lady." Sefa hesitated only briefly. "The… Twins are with her?"

The Twins. Gwen didn't so much as pause, but her thoughts went right to the last time she'd seen them – late on the night of this year's arena-trials, in Arthur's company and surprised to learn of their families' antipathy and its cause. Connections began to form, reasons for their visit and Nimueh's impatience; her arrival at the queen's office door interrupted the process.

The slave had seen her coming, and bowed as he opened the door. Gwen made a sign for Sefa to follow her inside, but the queen turned from a standing position behind her desk – rigid with fury – and ordered the secretary, "Leave us."

Sefa retreated, and the slave closed the door. The silence fairly crackled with tension. The Twins – Morgause facing away from Gwen, and Morgana at right angles to her sister – lounged in Nimueh's guest chairs, affecting indifference.

Gwen clasped her hands loosely in front of her and resisted the urge to shift nervously as she tried to remember her latest misdeed or shortcoming. And when Nimueh spoke, the topic that had evidently provoked her temper took Gwen by surprise.

"Damn your foolish quest."

"Excuse me?" Gwen said. The queen had laughed and joked about the nonsensical task she'd set for her suitors, the last they'd spoken of it. "Your Majesty, has something happened?"

"Lord Arthur," Nimueh said icily. From the corner of her eye, Gwen noticed Morgause turn her head, enough to see the smirk. "Where did he go?"

"He didn't say," Gwen answered truthfully. And she hadn't asked, either him or Lancelot.

"When did he leave?"

"Early this morning, I believe." Gwen watched her mother share a significant glance with the Twins, and added, "Why, may I ask?"

She might ask, but that didn't guarantee an answer. Coming around her desk to lean backwards against the front of it, Nimueh continued. "And did he tell you what artifact he was after?"

"No." Gwen took two steps forward, to be at least as close to her mother as Nimueh was to the other two women, and lifted her chin. "Something happened, that changed your – amused support, of my decision?"

"Arthur took Merlin with him." Nimueh crossed her arms and arched her brows challengingly.

For a moment Gwen waited for the rest, before realizing, that _was_ the fact that irked the queen. Puzzled, she said, "Yes, I know, he told me he intended to."

"What?" That was Morgana, shocked out of silence into interrupting, sliding to the edge of her seat. Morgause twisted around to face Gwen, and the smirk was gone.

"Why?" Nimueh demanded narrowly.

Honestly, why did the situation or that detail warrant such intent focus? "He said that there were complications with Merlin's first business venture, and that he subsequently hired Merlin to accompany him on the quest."

He'd also said, _I anticipate you finding out… better to tell you immediately, and myself_. Which made her think now, he'd spoken in fairly innocuous general terms, and there was possibly more to it.

"But you have no idea what the object of his quest was," Nimueh pressed, "or why he'd need _Merlin's_ help?"

"No. I assumed it was equal parts, for the use of his conjuration, and Arthur taking pity on his… predicament."

Merlin had a loan – then, complications – and Arthur purchased the loan. Gwen looked at the Twins. The money-lenders. And what, she asked herself, was their interest in her quest, or in Arthur and Merlin's partnership?

"It should be simple enough to discover which direction they took, leaving the city." Morgause was speaking to the queen, and Gwen had the feeling – again – there were things that only she, out of the four women in the room, didn't know. She settled her expression into regal impassivity. "It would be difficult and expensive for me to send anyone after them, but…"

"No," Nimueh said, lowering her eyes to the rug thoughtfully. "It's possible that Lord Arthur's concern with Merlin is more mercenary than cooperative in nature, that he anticipates a high degree of danger or risk, in this quest. It makes more sense to… wait, and… meet them upon their return."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Morgause said. She rose to her feet – and Morgana a half-second later.

"Let me know what else you can discover." Nimueh waved a hand, and the twins – with a deeper curtsy to the queen than the princess – let themselves out of the room.

"Mother?" Gwen said expectantly, keeping irritation – which would only serve to irritate her mother – in check. "I don't see why Arthur's employment of Merlin is a problem, nor what business it is of –"

"You don't see why it's a problem," Nimueh repeated. She shook her head, beaded braids rippling in the rest of her loose curls, then circled the desk to seat herself again. "Why a freedman with the title of lord, entering into a partnership with our first male citizen in a century –" and by her tone, Nimueh was not pleased with the boy's victory in the arena – "and leaving the city to travel the kingdom unsupervised, is cause for concern?"

"Unsupervised?" Gwen said incredulously. "Freedmen and citizens alike have the freedom to travel as they will, and can."

Nimueh gave her a look of disappointed disgust. "Suppose one's success coupled with the other's sense of entitlement begins to spread dissatisfaction among the males of our population? There have been uprisings in the past, Guinevere, and while we have the magic and the power to quell such things, it is not without loss, or risk of weakening ourselves to foreign attack."

Gwen could see her mother's point. But was that reason enough to circumvent law-given rights and freedoms?

"I'm sure you're exaggerating the danger," she said.

Nimueh studied her a moment, brilliant blue eyes unreadable. "And you might think otherwise, was it your throne to protect," she said softly. "We shall see, I suppose. You are dismissed."

Gwen bowed her head respectfully, and let herself out of the room as well. The Twins were no longer in sight, but Sefa was waiting, wringing her hands anxiously and maybe even unconsciously, and jumped in shock when Gwen appeared. Her nerves seemed to be heightened, and didn't abate as they walked back to the royal chamber, but Gwen waited til they were alone before speaking.

"What is it?" she said gently, facing the secretary as she turned from closing the door behind them.

Initially, Sefa stiffened, frightened at being caught out, maybe considering denial – but her brown eyes welled with tears, and she struggled to overcome her hesitation. "My older sister," she finally murmured. "Works as a clerk in the Twins' lending-house."

"I see," Gwen said, calculating possibilities of information exchange, in either direction, past or future.

"They must have just found that out – in the hall, they asked me –"

"Sefa," Gwen said, stopping her with one hand on both of the other girl's, cold fingers tangled together. "I won't ask you to betray your loyalty to your sister, or ask her to betray hers to her employers. But I have to believe that you will not betray my trust in you, either." She made the last a question, waiting til her secretary met her eyes.

She ducked her head in initial agreement. "They - they asked me about… you and Lord Arthur. And – I mentioned a few days ago that Merlin might come talk to you, to my sister, just as a curiosity. I don't know if she told them – she doesn't really like working for them, but if they asked…"

"It's fine," Gwen said soothingly. "What's done is done."

She thought she understood, a little better. If the Twins had given Merlin his loan, and if Arthur had gotten involved in the situation, even out of concern for Merlin, it made sense that the two women would have taken offense, given their feud with Arthur's family. Even if it did seem extreme that they would try to get him in trouble with the queen, in retaliation.

"Just – practice discretion?" Gwen added to Sefa. "If your sister loves you, she won't ask you to tell her things you shouldn't, okay?"

"Yes, my lady." Sefa sniffled, flashed a brief and watery smile, and bobbed a curtsy.

"Now. We have plenty more to do today, so let's get to it," Gwen suggested, and headed for her desk, as Sefa scampered for the door.

And. Plenty now to think about, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival was on guard duty. He hadn't spoken to Gwaine about the detail yet, but he'd privately decided, for future reference, Merlin's concerns took precedence over Arthur's. Which was why he was standing guard, rather than helping about the campsite.

A muffled groan turned into an inarticulate curse, and Percival resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, or ask again after the young man's well-being. He had a feeling that repeated concern would prove offensive, in Merlin's current condition and mood. So he leaned nonchalantly sideways against a large tree, a stone's toss to the east of camp, and watched the others work.

Arthur had pushed them til the sun had set, half an hour ago. The color was fading from the sky, half-hidden by leaf-canopy, and in another half-hour it would be dark. Just now, the fire was more useful as heat for their dinner, than light for their other chores. Conjured wood burned better, it seemed, and the flame caught instantly, though Percival regretted that brief expression of grim maturity that shadowed Merlin's face as he looked at the conjured flame, and probably remembered the clinic.

Leon was cooking tonight. He'd volunteered in a self-deprecating way, and Arthur, in accepting, had informed them they could expect to take turns on subsequent nights.

Tristan was organizing the material Merlin had conjured, into bedding – on the ground, padded by bracken and detritus. Gwaine had made a joke about silk sheets and mahogany bed-frames – which made Percival and Merlin laugh, though the other three hadn't understood – before heading off somewhere to help Arthur with the horses. Downstream of where Percival guarded Merlin's privacy, maybe.

He appeared, tramping to join Percival alongside the meandering brook, but whatever he had been about to say was lost in the distraction of another self-pitying moan from behind Percival. It caught Gwaine's attention over Percival's shoulder, though he couldn't see anything anyway – Merlin had chosen an area well-concealed with low bushes, and a bit of distance from Percival, also.

"Is he okay?" Gwaine asked, keeping his voice too low to travel to their boy-master in his misery.

Percival allowed a slight smile and lifted his brows, and Gwaine rolled his eyes in realization. "Just that, though?"

"It'll be worse in the morning," Percival told him.

Gwaine nodded, but he probably didn't understand. He'd grown up in a garrison, probably begging rides throughout his childhood and adolescence. His first extended campaign had probably not been near as bad as this Merlin's first time a-horseback. Percival, as a fellow city-raised boy, could sympathize.

"So what do you think?" he asked his long-haired friend, jerking his chin slightly toward their camp.

"Leon's a good man," Gwaine said, turning to watch the other two soldiers. "A bit unimaginative, unambitious…"

"Which probably makes him a very good soldier," Percival agreed, and Gwaine nodded.

"Tristan's a surly bastard – but he's not lazy, and Leon and Arthur don't seem to mind him. Arthur's a puzzle, but he seems like –"

"Where is he, anyway?" Percival interrupted, pushing upright and away from the tree, eyes scanning the dusky limits of sight around their camp and not finding the golden-haired lord.

"He was going to –" Gwaine gestured aimlessly and glanced around also.

And Arthur's voice came from a point behind Percival that made him cringe – but keep his back turned. "Merlin, why are you all the way –" sudden change of tone – "What _are_ you doing?"

"Trying for a moment of privacy," Merlin snarled. Gwaine snickered and Percival elbowed him. "Lords, Arthur, can't you –"

"What do you want me to do, knock?" Arthur retorted, sounding annoyed and embarrassed – annoyed because he was embarrassed, maybe. "How was I to know you needed a personal moment?"

"My trousers around my ankles didn't give it away to you?"

Percival made to turn around, intending to interrupt and force Arthur to take his leave, lord or no, but Gwaine stopped him with a hand on his arm. He leaned closer to suggest with quiet humor, "Let them have their moment."

Well. The harm was probably already done, and Merlin _could_ take care of himself…

Arthur had continued speaking. "Fine. I will find a tree trunk and bloody my knuckles rapping, the next time I come to deliberately interrupt your precious priv- What _is_ that stuff?" Another tone change, from annoyed to interested.

" _Lords_ , Arthur." Silence for a moment. " _This_ is for muscle ache and _this_ is for blisters, are you happy now?"

Placating tone. "Merlin, it's all right, we all understand if you need to –"

Merlin was having none of it. "Don't bother slowing your pace for me. And laugh all you like – really, you're welcome to it. I'll live."

Crackling of forest-floor detritus, a swish or two of angrily-hastily swiped branches, and Merlin stormed past, stiff with mortified temper. His tunic was slung over the crook of his elbow as he paused to finish tying the drawstring of his trousers. "Thanks so much," he snapped, "both of you. Wonderful job keeping an eye out for anyone coming my way."

"Apologies for the slip-up, sir," Percival said dryly, and had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling at the glare Merlin shot him for the honorific.

Arthur joined them as they watched the youngest of their group stalk back to the camp. He began in a low voice, "I _am_ sorry for –"

"Never mind," Percival advised, though he appreciated Arthur's impulse to express regret for his blunder. "It'll be fine. Just let him…" He gestured.

Leon had looked up from his crouch over the stewpot, saying something to Merlin, who shook his hand once over the steaming vessel. Salt, Percival guessed – he'd learned that conjured flavorings were just as good as real, since they were unnecessary for actual sustenance, at least for the duration of the trip. Merlin then cupped his hands and bowls popped up, one after another, nestling inside the next – wood, probably, as the boy explained was easier than clay. The young man fairly tossed the dishes down to Leon – who looked surprised, at Merlin's mood more than his conjuration, it might be. Spoons were next, by the brief metallic glint, as fast as Merlin could pass them from one hand to the other, before he dropped them to Leon's lap as well, and turned toward the bedding Tristan had laid out. Leon twisted to say something more, and the three of them heard Merlin's terse response clearly.

"I'm not hungry." Tristan glanced over as the boy stretched his length gingerly along one of the bedrolls, pulling a light cover against moisture over him, and Gwaine chuckled at Merlin's more audible retort. "Shut up!"

As Leon began to spoon their dinner into the bowls – Percival was pleased to see no hesitation over using the conjured materials - Arthur moved to lead the two of them back to the campsite.

"He'll be all right," Percival said, noticing Arthur's look, halfway between serious and unhappy. "He's allowed his moments, I think, but that boy is nothing if not cheerful."

"He's got spirit, I'll give him that," Arthur murmured, as they stepped into the circle of firelight.

Percival decided to save Merlin a share of dinner, and wake his boy-master to make sure he ate, when it was his turn at watch. Otherwise, sleep was best. Morning would come sooner than Merlin would be happy with, he suspected.

 **A/N: Nothing from the book, aside from the fact of the quest (I honestly don't remember the point of it, in the book) and the mc doing conjuration to help it along.**


	10. History Lessons

**Chapter 10: History Lessons**

Percival could tell that Arthur and Merlin were growing more accustomed to each other, feeling comfortable in each other's company.

It was in the way they could ride abreast and not keep giving each other sidelong glances, needing to pick up visual clues of expression and bearing, to aid in the interpretation of what was actually said. Percival often rode at the rear of the party, feeling most comfortable when he could see what was going on at a glance, rather than having to rely on hearing, and turn around to check. And the dynamics that he observed over the course of three days' riding, were unsurprising, and only slightly changed.

Gwaine and Leon were a lot alike, though one was quite talkative and the other much quieter – they both seemed perfectly satisfied to get along with any one of the others, comfortable with any given pairing. Tristan was happiest being unsociable; he and Percival had been civil about camp, but otherwise the oldest soldier made it clear he preferred his own company, only tolerating anyone else's. Except Merlin; he seemed to bear the boy-citizen some grudge which Merlin, predictably, tolerated with patience.

Merlin didn't seem to seek out the company of any one of them, probably because he was more passenger than rider, and as long as his mare kept up, he wasn't worried about giving the mount additional directions. Percival guessed the saddle-soreness was easing, also; Merlin's back was straighter this afternoon and his head up, wind ruffling the black hair as he showed more interest in their surroundings.

And Arthur. Enigmatic at best, Percival could not read him beyond determined, direct, and sincere in his care for the men and his responsibility for the success of their journey. Focused and driven, though Percival could not have explained, on what or to what. Something beyond simple obedience to a sovereign's order, he suspected. Arthur seemed comfortable riding alongside any of their number also; though Percival thought his choice deliberate, every time, he could not guess at the lord's reasoning there, either.

Except when he rode with Merlin. Then it seemed all four of them who were soldiers, were more _aware_ of that pair, than any other.

Just now, Percival rode alone at the rear, and Tristan out front. Gwaine and Merlin in front of Percival, and Leon and Arthur behind Tristan. Because they'd just slowed their pace for the horses' sake, Gwaine was teasing Merlin mildly, and their boy-master was obviously feeling well enough to turn the insults back on their long-haired friend.

"All I'm saying is, you could've conjured a pillow for your saddle," Gwaine said, spreading his hands as if to protest his innocence. "And while you were at it, conjure a nice velvet cushion for my hindquarters as well."

"Gwaine, I could conjure an entire featherbed for your comfort," Merlin said condescendingly, "but you'd still find something to complain about, and in any case… Arthur wants to move _fast_."

Percival couldn't help grinning at the deliberate sarcasm. It found its target; Arthur glanced back with one eyebrow raised.

"All right then, at least give me a mug's worth of water?" Gwaine said. "I'm parched."

"Haven't you got any left in your water-skin?" Percival called up to them.

Leon looked back as well. "You know that drinking conjured water won't actually do you any good?"

Merlin, meanwhile, had a large wooden cup held out to Gwaine, clear liquid wetting his hand as he rocked with his mare's gait. Gwaine took it and held it up like a toast. "Lucky I'm not drinking it then, yeah? Ahhhh…"

As he upturned the cup over his head, droplets splashing down his hair and face, his mount slowed pace somewhat. Percival groaned to himself at how refreshing that looked, in this heat, as he moved up beside his friend. Arthur, still twisted in the saddle to watch them, signaled his own mount to slow, and took Gwaine's place beside Merlin.

Who shook the spilled water from his hand before making a negligent secondary gesture that Percival recognized as a dismissal of conjuration. In an instant, Merlin's hand and sleeve were dry – but so were Gwaine's face and hair. Gwaine made a complaining noise and made as if to shake more drops from the empty cup in his hand. Percival leaned to punch his shoulder left-handed as Merlin tossed a grin over his shoulder, and the cup disappeared.

"You've experienced," Arthur said to Merlin, not interrupting the by-play, only re-directing attention, "quite a few things for the first time in your life, since leaving Camelot."

Merlin made an agreeable sound, and Arthur gestured to the road ahead of them; Percival could just make out the edge of the forest they'd traveled the past two days.

"Mountains," Arthur added.

Percival had seen mountains before, though not like these. Craggy and grand, with a drift of white at the top, in spite of the season. Before them, the road climbed slightly out of forest toward the foothills, and the garrison of Ealdor sat neat to guard both it and the trade route that branched off toward the coast. Camelot had no allies, it was true, but there were merchants who overlooked such things, willing to cross borders and pay taxes for the profit.

He rather wished to have Arthur's place, at the moment they emerged to that view of the landscape – Merlin straightened and inhaled with an audible sound of delight. He could picture the look on his boy-master's face, though, something like the hopeful triumph he'd worn when they first received Morgana's loan.

"The White Mountains!" Merlin exclaimed, with a hint of question. "And that's Ealdor?"

"Yes," Arthur answered. "We'll probably arrive around sundown, and tomorrow morning our road lies north. You can see the track cutting into the side of that peak to the east."

"And then?" Merlin prompted.

Percival felt his heart-rate increase, just slightly. So far Merlin had been content to let trust form and friendship grow without pressing for details that Arthur would not divulge of his own choosing. Which had been nothing – so far – though Gwaine was of the opinion that Leon, at least, knew everything. And Tristan was as stubborn about being close-mouthed, as he was about everything else. It was good to know that Merlin had not forgotten or overlooked the fact that they had little information about their goals.

"Once we're beyond Camelot's borders, it won't be illegal for you to tell us – where, exactly, and why, exactly?"

"And what, exactly," Gwaine put in.

Merlin and Arthur sent simultaneous glances at him over their shoulders, both to the inside, but neither looked nor said anything reproving.

"Wild men and monsters?" Merlin hinted further.

"Bandits and beasts," Arthur replied neutrally, as if to avoid further discussion – but he didn't urge his mount into the solitary lead. And after another moment of expectant silence, he asked a seemingly unrelated question of his own. "Have you ever read Taliesin?"

Merlin snorted. "Of course not. A male writer? My mother was nowhere near as well-off as yours was, you know that."

"But you're familiar with the name," Arthur observed.

"Only because Gaius mentioned it once or twice as something he'd read when he was young, and his physician-master giving him an education." Merlin glanced sideways. "Why, you have?"

"Bits and pieces. A friend recommended it to me, recently."

It was hard to tell if Arthur shrugged, a-horseback, but Percival thought so. Gwaine was whistling through his teeth and watching to their left flank, as though bored with the talk of intellectual education; Percival had the feeling that this mattered, more than just chatting to pass the time. He wondered if Merlin felt that, too, when he spoke.

"What does a three-hundred-year-old male writer, have to do with this trip?"

"Taliesin chronicled of the fall of the ancient kings," Arthur said conversationally, head turned in the general direction of their destination, the still-distant garrison. "Blythewin's coup, and Bruta's defeat. It seems that Camelot's last king was gravely wounded on the battlefield, and retreated north. He and his sword."

 _Battlefield_ did not sound heroic to Percival. He'd never been in a full-scale battle, only bandit skirmishes, and none of them grand, though still there'd been a certain sense of ferocious pride in defending land and comrades from those who stole what did not belong to them. But the battle Arthur spoke of, that would have been Camelot's civil war – women and witches under Blythewin's command, against the knights and lords of Bruta's rule. Households divided; kingdom divided. Betrayal.

"His sword was important?" Merlin asked, and it caught Percival's attention away from his musings, because the young man's tone was not idle curiosity.

"It was. The symbol of Camelot's unity, and the rightful sovereign. In one passage, Taliesin questioned whether Blythewin would adopt the symbol herself, or have it destroyed, were she to lay hands on it, but… she never did."

"Who was Taliesin?" Percival asked, unintentionally interrupting, but Arthur was not the sort to take offense where none was intended.

"He was the court bard. Evidently managed to survive the war without taking sides. Though that meant that both mistrusted him – and he wrote in riddles and prophecies, as a result."

"And what does that, have to do with our trip?" Merlin asked, but kept talking rather than wait for a reply. "To the north… where Bruta retreated… with this sword…"

"That's my quest," Arthur said, with a simple confidence that impressed Percival in a quiet and profound way – even as Gwaine scoffed, next to him. "Taliesin describes Bruta's retreat in vague terms, but I studied some maps and I'm fairly certain I've got a good idea where it might be. Generally."

Beside Percival, Gwaine repeated mockingly, under his breath, " _Fairly_ certain – good _idea_ – _might_ be, generally."

"Okay, but… Why does the queen want Bruta's sword?" Merlin puzzled. "Why now? And why you?"

"My quest wasn't the queen's idea," Arthur answered mildly. "It was the princess."

Percival recalled her, dark hair a tamed riot of curls, dusky skin glowing against the light-cream of her dress. Arthur on one side and another well-dressed male on the other, as she spoke to Merlin, the day he'd become a citizen. He asked distinctly, "Why does the princess want Bruta's sword?"

"I don't know if she does," Arthur said, shifting in his saddle so Percival could see his profile, half of an oddly whimsical expression. Ahead of them, Percival noticed Leon and Tristan paying little attention to the conversation, and guessed that both already knew the whole story. "You might have heard the other rumor – the queen has decided that it is time for the princess to produce an heir, and lengthen the line of succession."

"And you're up for stud duty?" Gwaine commented with crude mirth. "Congratulations, my lord."

"Conjure me something heavy," Arthur said to Merlin, holding out one gloved hand between them as they rode.

"Why?" Merlin asked, beginning to stretch out his own.

"To throw at Gwaine." Arthur turned in the saddle, miming the throw in a startlingly realistic gesture that had Gwaine flinching in reaction – and the lord did not look as if he was joking. "Or something sharp, say."

As Arthur faced forward again, Percival glared at his companion, drawing a forefinger across his gullet in a clear _Stop-it_ warning. If he wasn't careful, Arthur would take the conversation right out of their hearing – they'd have to wait to hear details secondhand from Merlin, and maybe then, not whatever Arthur asked him not to repeat.

Gwaine lifted both hands in a _what-did-I-do_ response, and Percival rolled his eyes.

"She was deciding, wasn't she," Merlin said in a tone of gradual realization. "That day. You and the other male – and she was the only one who came to talk to me. Did she – did someone say… never mind."

"Yes, Merlin." Arthur's voice, glance, and set of his jaw showed amusement, not jealousy. "Someone did suggest that she consider you for the sire of her daughter, if you survived your citizen-trial."

Percival could tell, even riding behind Merlin, that he was blushing. His ears were red.

Then again, the princess was hardly alone in her consideration of that use of Merlin's talents, and yet they'd never gotten an offer from her. Just, the permission for Merlin to use the library, without mention of return favor. He wondered why she had not chosen Merlin… but he was glad for that, after all. As a citizen, Merlin might have the right to say _no_ to anyone who propositioned, but he might _not_ have the courage to say it to royalty.

"Lucky for you," Arthur anticipated Percival's question – and alleviated Merlin's embarrassment – "she saw you as more of a younger brother or cousin maybe, than a romantic option."

"Maybe not so lucky," Gwaine put in, contrarily. "A royal lover – just think of the possib–"

Percival kneed his horse sideways into Gwaine's heavily enough to unsettle both mounts. "Keep your mouth shut, or I will punch it," he informed his friend, pleasant and serious, and Gwaine finally seemed to get the hint – about Percival's intention anyway, if not the reason for it.

Arthur ignored them, but his bearing was a bit more stiff. "The princess invoked an old right, of choosing between suitors based upon their quest for an object of tribute."

"Who's your rival?" Merlin asked suddenly, curiously. "The man with the dark hair, he was wearing an embroidered tunic that day."

"His name is Lancelot. He's a good man." Arthur looked at Merlin. "You have a very good memory."

"It helps with conjuration." Merlin didn't even seem to realize that the young lord was giving him a compliment. "But I don't understand – if the princess left the choice of the quest to you, why Bruta's sword, of all things?"

"Taliesin claims, the return of Excalibur –"

Gwaine mouthed the word toward Percival, mocking the pretentiousness of a named blade. _Excalibur_. Arthur continued oblivious.

"Will herald an age of re-balance, a re-distribution of power. Change, and equality."

His carelessly irreverent friend could scoff all he liked, but Percival was feeling a chill at his core, in spite of the weather. Say they were successful – what would be the reaction of the female citizens of Camelot, to see Arthur, a lord and a freedman, ride into the capital bearing a weapon so heavily symbolic? Forget that, what would the queen's reaction be?

"What makes you think the princess would appreciate such a tribute?" Merlin said. He sounded nervous, and did not look at Arthur; Percival wondered if the same thoughts occurred to him. No wonder Arthur wanted them far out of Camelot, before he told them this.

Except… why was he telling them this? He could have kept it to himself, spun some other story of complacent royal favor.

"She reads Taliesin as well." Arthur was watching Merlin, though, like a hawk.

What if he was testing Merlin, sounding out his loyalties and ideology? In preparation to… what? Percival's protective instincts were tingling, but he didn't know what to do, or say.

"I have an idea that she… wonders, if now might be the time, the fulfillment of prophecy," the lord continued. "I suspect she might be open to considering such – social changes, for her reign. If there was a palpable sign, like –"

"The return of the king's sword," Merlin finished for him. "But the queen is… neither old nor infirm, she could rule a very long time, yet. What if she takes offense? What if you've misunderstood the princess' intentions? What will you…"

"What will I do?" Arthur said, with a wry half-smile, and a sharp, comprehensive backwards look at Percival and Gwaine – who might finally have caught on to the significance of the conversation, by his alert silence. "Tell me, Merlin, if I admitted that I am planning a coup, an uprising based on the slaves and the soldiers, to take power and force change, what would you do?"

Percival had no idea how he'd answer such a question. There were personal considerations of safety and danger - of helping, of helping and failing, of trying to oppose. There were considerations of private desire – impersonal ones of right and wrong, of goals and methods… He knew by now, Merlin was intelligent enough to think of these things, too.

Ahead of him, his boy-master actually shuddered.

"I'd… try to talk you out of it," he said, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. "I don't know, Arthur, I owe you my magic to pay my debt, and I can't deny I feel things are unfair in Camelot, as they stand now, but… _how_ you do something, is just as important as _what_ you do, and… listen, if the prophecies say it's going to happen, then you don't have to – _do_ anything, to force it to happen, right?"

For several moments, they rode in silence; Percival stared at the back of Arthur's head, avoiding Gwaine's eyes. Because he was afraid that Arthur was capable of such a thing, if he believed it was the right thing to do, and the only way. Because he was afraid of what would happen to Merlin, then – in the failure, or the success of such a venture, and not just physically. Because for a moment it seemed to him that it was his choice as well – to help them, or do what he could to hinder – before he decided his loyalty was to Merlin's choice. And what did that say about him?

"If I'm wrong," Arthur said quietly, "I will leave the sword in Guinevere's possession, and submit myself to royal judgment for my offense. And none of you will suffer with me, having only followed my orders."

And by all the gods that heard him, Percival believed him, too.

After a moment, Merlin ventured another question, low and calm and trusting, now. "What makes you think, it might be now, to try to find the sword?"

"You." Arthur answered easily enough, but Merlin's reactive startle caused his mare to sidestep and jerk her head.

"Me? What about me?"

"The fact of you. First male citizen in a century." Arthur was unconcerned about the implications of what Merlin seemed much more upset about.

"No, but – really, there's nothing special about me." Gwaine made a rude noise, and Merlin twisted to look at them, almost anguished in his sincerity. "It's just that – boys aren't taught or trained, the way girls are, they're discouraged from trying or practicing. I bet lots of males could be decent conjurors, if they had the same opportunities and support females have."

"Treason," Gwaine said in a tone of irony. "Or truth."

"Even without the sword," Arthur said, "I think Guinevere is the sort to consider addressing social inequality, anyway. I never met a woman like her - she really looks at people, whether male or female, she listens…"

"Sounds like you're in love with her," Merlin remarked lightly.

Arthur stiffened like Merlin had casually conjured a dagger to jab into his side. Percival risked a glance; Gwaine's eyebrows were high, but his smile was genuine, rather than diabolical. Merlin didn't seem to realize what he'd said, watching ahead toward Ealdor. But Arthur hadn't yet relaxed, when the younger man looked his way again.

"Oh – you're in love with her," Merlin repeated, in a different tone.

"Merlin," Arthur said – not angrily, just with a retreat to his usual reserve. "You're such an idiot." And he prodded his black-brown gelding into a trot, passing Tristan and Leon – who seemed to have missed the last exchange – to take the lead.

Merlin gave Percival and Gwaine an uncertain look over his shoulder.

Gwaine mouthed, _He loves her!_ and grinned – and Merlin's face split with a wide pleased smile of his own.

Percival was satisfied, that one fact would keep Arthur from intentions, as well as actions, that might be offensive to the crown princess. Seemed they knew a fair few of Arthur's secrets now.

…..*….. …*….. …*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Sefa brought in Gwen's correspondence shortly after the noon meal – but she lingered to wait for Gwen's replies. Which wasn't entirely unusual – she wrote about half of them herself, to Gwen's instructions. But today, she fidgeted.

And about halfway through the stack, Gwen realized why.

The little scroll began, _Majesty, greetings. I claim the pleasure of a family connection to one of your close employees, and further acknowledge my own employment which I am assured you are aware of. I beg forgiveness for my presumption in writing to you, I can only hope you receive this message in the spirit which it was written and delivered._

Gwen looked up deliberately, and met Sefa's light brown eyes, her face pinched in worry. Her expression begged Gwen to finish before speaking, or scolding. Hinted at the serious nature of the communication, that this was the chosen method – written by Sefa's sister, evidently, rather than passed on verbally by the secretary. It was a risk, sometimes, committing words to parchment.

 _It has long been a suspicion of mine, that certain practices of my employers are unethical at best, and illegal at worse. Recently I overheard a conversation that confirms this – though of course I realize that no one else can accept this as definitive proof. With this in mind, I am going to be bluntly truthful and hope I give no offense. And that this missive be destroyed, regardless of conclusions your Highness draws._

 _My employer's partner was complaining of losses in connection to a recent deal with the new male citizen._

Gwen paused, letting her eyes unfocus as she thought. So the Twins had originally given Merlin the loan that Arthur purchased… she wondered if the losses mentioned, were more than just the interest on Merlin's repayments – and what that could be.

 _She lamented not only missed opportunities specific to his person, but of other material assets destroyed. You have heard, maybe, of an accidental fire in connection with this citizen. Initially I assumed this to be the loss implied, but she spoke further of the need to replace these assets at the slave auction._

What?

 _My employer replied…_

There were blots on the page, as if the writer had hesitated, debating with herself whether to commit the actual quote to parchment. The missive continued in words that were smaller, and appeared hurried, in comparison to the rest.

… _that live assets such as trained slaves, should not have been risked in an offensive move against men who were military, and murderers. To which my employer's partner answered, We will not make the same mistake next time. After this, they both discussed the fact that the citizen and his new employer left the city by the north gate, and so might be expected to return by the same. They spoke of the northern road, and the best location to meet them._

 _I am, of course, powerless to act from my position. Whatever your Majesty decides, however, I beg you will absolve my sister from any blame in this matter. I remain yours loyally_ … but it was unsigned.

Gwen dropped the scroll and listened to it roll itself up as she closed her eyes and propped her forehead in her fingers, elbows braced on her desktop.

So the complications Arthur had mentioned, were engineered by the Twins, to secure some hold over Merlin – Gwen was curious about the terms of that loan, that Arthur had increased pre-existing animosity to pay off, employing Merlin against the debt. She figured it had occurred to the lord that he would provoke royal interest – and maybe even displeasure - with his employment of the sole male citizen of Camelot, and still he'd done it.

"Do you know of the incident, the loss of slave assets your sister referred to?" she asked aloud.

"No, my lady." Sefa ventured, "But my sister has mentioned… rumors. That Morgause _enforces_ re-payment, upon required occasion."

Okay. So an incident involving slaves trained to – her mind skittered around _violence_ , and supplied _persuasion_. Which failed, thanks to Merlin's two slaves – military and murderer most likely referred to them. "And the fire…"

"The clinic? That Merlin was going to open?"

Gwen sighed against the scattered sheets only inches from her face. "No one was hurt?"

"No, my lady."

Gwen was glad she'd told Arthur to look after Merlin – he probably needed it more than she'd realized. She hoped the lord was doing just that. Especially since it appeared that Morgana and Morgause planned a confrontation of some sort when they returned… she wondered whether a warning was in order, and how she might accomplish that. Then again, it seemed like Merlin could handle himself against his two slaves at least – and they could handle themselves against Morgause's – and Arthur had at least two soldiers who'd ridden attendant with him from Dubois. Still, something would need to be…

She dropped her hands, watching her fingers fold together, calm and sedate – then looked at her secretary, still anxiously waiting Gwen's reaction.

"Why are you and your sister passing this information on to me?" she said. "There's an officer of commerce whose business it is to deal with misconduct – and the Watch handles criminal charges."

"We – we can't do that," Sefa stuttered. "My lady, there isn't proof except my sister's testimony, and she's scared of what they'll do to her if she starts to make trouble and I'm terrified for her, and…"

"And there's something more," Gwen said. "If this is a fairly common – if unethical – occurrence for the Twins, why come to me now? It would seem like the loss of these slaves and the loan interest might be considered penalty enough. Why does Merlin particularly provoke your sympathy, when it might realistically be assumed otherwise?"

Sefa drummed her fingers on the leather-bound folio still in her hands. "We had a brother, my lady," she finally said, so quietly that Gwen had to lean forward to hear her. "Three years younger than me. And he could… he could…" She mouthed the word, _conjure_ , and cast a backwards glance over her shoulder.

"And Merlin reminds you of your brother?" Gwen guessed.

The secretary tapped her fingers on the bound pages in her grip again. "He was _good_. Better than I am. After my older sister passed her trial, we spoke of… my brother. Maybe becoming…"

Gwen's eyebrows rose at the thought of other male citizens. Initially, _oh good_! – and then, _complicated_.

"He was killed. Two days before my trial, actually – that might have been the only thing that got me through…" Sefa met Gwen's eyes timidly. "An accident, they said. He was knocked under a dray-cart."

"I'm so sorry," Gwen told her. She'd lost a brother as well, and even though it was a relationship she'd never had, she regretted the missed opportunity, though the feeling must have been faint in comparison to what Sefa and her sister endured.

"Only, someone told my mother. A slave in black, with his head covered, his face covered, pushed my brother on purpose." Sefa was trembling; Gwen conversely frozen in astonishment. "My sister Ihve, she… asked questions, she… read records in the archives, and… thought that the Twins, they had something to do with it."

Sefa scooted to the edge of her chair, offering the folio still in her hands, untying the leather and spreading the sheets as if Gwen could read them all at once, as if the multiplicity of them would draw her eye and her sympathy. On top was a list, and it did catch her attention.

Names – boys' names – with accompanying ages, but all short of adulthood, evidently gleaned from death records. A handful every year going back at least a decade, with a short description of the cause of death. Mostly accidently, some illnesses, and there were two different marks next to some of them – a circle, and a cross.

"What is this?" Gwen asked.

"They all could conjure," Sefa said, pale but determined. "It took time, finding family or neighbors, talking to them without giving away why. Some of them, too young for anyone to seriously suggest the possibility of winning citizenship. But – they all could conjure, my lady. Those marked with circles were cases when a slave in black was mentioned, those marked with a cross, when the accident happened or illness struck, in the neighborhood of the lending-house. Ihve, she went to work for the Twins to find proof, to make connections, but they're careful and smart and there isn't anything, any proof and…"

"You thought I could help," Gwen finished grimly.

And found herself wondering how Merlin slipped through the cracks – before she realized, the thought indicated some level of belief. Though of course, if all this was a given, it would make more sense for the Twins to pursue a course that ended with Merlin dead or enslaved.

"But why?" Gwen said. Why would they? A hatred of males that ran just that deep? That they'd risk losing everything paying fines, or facing the executioner, if this was ever discovered? That didn't make sense…

Sefa shook her head, helpless to answer.

"I can't accuse them based on hearsay, or these coincidences," Gwen told her. She couldn't go to a judge, or even the queen… and her only other option – a trial-by-arms - was too ludicrous for consideration, when she was nowhere near strong enough to match their magic, even one at a time. She'd heard that each of them showed golden eyes during conjuration, as the queen did, and Nimueh had been popularly supposed the strongest in the land, for decades. She herself had privately assumed, she would have to base her rule on more than threat of magical force, when her turn came, without seriously considering it, as that time was years in the future.

Although – a thought struck her. Confession.

"Sefa," she said. "Make me an appointment with Morgana." The more approachable of the two, though that wasn't saying much. "Not here – I think I'll pay them a visit."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin wanted to be ordinary. He wanted a home again, a family of people who loved him and each other, all working together to make their lives happy and meaningful. Productive. He wanted to live quietly, with a few friends and no enemies, a sociable stranger to everyone else. He'd never wanted to be involved in anything big or important.

But he wasn't ordinary. _You're so special, you're so different… You can change the world, my little son, someday… only believe._ Well, his world at least had changed. By not ending.

So what was he supposed to do? Believe prophecy, especially one allegedly written by someone who'd died long ago, his sources unknown, repeated vaguely by someone else Merlin didn't know well, who obviously had his own reasons for encouraging belief? Work toward it, fight against it, ignore it?

Or just, make the best choices he could, when he faced them. And if that led him into destiny… so be it. If it was truth, then he couldn't avoid it anyway, only accept.

Merlin thought about this, as he walked the streets of Ealdor alone, people mostly returning home at the end of the day, a pair of slaves lighting lamps at street corners. He thought about his employer, about what Arthur wanted and why.

And he observed something strange about the garrison town. Slaves were fairly recognizable, as were soldiers; each had a distinctive walk and bearing. But there were men in Ealdor – not many, but Merlin counted three along his route – who were not either. At least, not anymore. And if he'd been a female, it was likely he'd never have noticed, as each adapted a subservient attitude when a woman or older girl was in his close vicinity.

A puzzle, but probably not his business to worry about.

Leon and Percival had gone to replenish their stores for the part of their journey that lay beyond Camelot's civilization. Tristan and Gwaine were in the taproom of the tavern where they had beds for the night, gambling for the coin to drink, and drinking as long as they were winning. Arthur was – around, Merlin had the idea the lord wanted a bath and a shave and laundry done, while facilities for such luxury were available.

And Merlin had slipped out on his own.

One corner of the garrison was contained within the town, much like the palace and the capital, large and square and solid rock, towering over the single-level homes and shops of the rest of Ealdor. An iron gate stood ajar to allow a Watch patrol to pass; beyond the marching blue-clad soldiers bordered by two female officers, Merlin glimpsed a small courtyard. As the men cleared the gate, he ventured inside.

The single guard left behind hung one hand casually on the grate of the iron gate, and stared at him curiously, but evidently people were allowed to enter. And, Merlin supposed, he didn't look that intimidating – or interesting, maybe.

"I'm looking for the – um, duty officer?" he said. Someone officially appointed for questions, but not as highly-ranked – important and impatient – as the commander.

"Office just over there." The guard raised his voice to address someone out of Merlin's sight along the inner wall of the small yard, "Matthew, someone to see the D-O."

Merlin moved forward to see a thin man with shaggy light-brown hair and sparse beard, hunched shoulders and shy eyes, look up from his obvious task of sweeping the packed earth with a stiff twig-broom. He glanced briefly at Merlin, then leaned his broom on the wall as he ducked an affirmation to the guard. Merlin followed as he turned away.

"Thanks," he said, but barring another swift look, the man – the slave – didn't acknowledge him.

They walked along one wall forming the yard, through an arched opening at the corner, to enter the structure of the garrison proper. Torch-lit, no windows, but the sense of the place was reassuringly defensive, not daunting threat. A short walk down a single corridor, and the office door stood propped open with a chunk of limestone.

The duty officer was plump, her hair a shade between blonde and light brown, mostly gathered in a twist at her nape, but the wisps that escaped gave her a frazzled look. Merlin guessed she might be day-shift, ready and waiting for her relief – she looked up expectantly at Matthew's knuckle-rap, but her face fell when she saw Merlin.

"What?" she snapped, more tired than angry.

"Um. I'm Merlin, I'm a… citizen of Camelot. My mother was stationed here years ago, and I was hoping –"

"A citizen?" The duty officer interrupted, amused. "That's a good joke, kid, but go home before I cite your mother for wasting my time."

"My mother is dead," Merlin said. And wondered if voicing that fact would give him the same pang for the rest of his life. "My name is Merlin, I passed my arena-trial a fortnight ago. I faced two male criminals, and they surrendered."

Lingering by the door, Matthew shifted uneasily. The officer rose from her chair behind the desk, frowning, and moved around the furniture toward him. "You've got your papers to prove that, I assume," she said. "Else you could be in a great deal of trouble, making that claim."

"No, I – there was a fire." Knowing how convenient to his story that sounded, he tilted his head, pushing his hair from his neck, and added, "Look." No mark meant he was no longer underage, but not in the military, not someone's slave.

"Runaway," she suggested, but in a manner that said, she was only testing him.

"If that was true, why did I come here?" he pointed out, and she shrugged, not particularly invested in debating his status. "My mother really was stationed here, and I'm only in town for the night, so I was hoping to find some information about her service, what she did. If any of her friends are still here."

The duty officer grunted, still eyeing him, then glanced at the marked candle on her desk. "Those records are part of the quartermaster's responsibility, she'll be on duty another half of an hour. That'll have to be enough time, yeah?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, relieved and excited.

"When was your ma here?" she asked.

"Um. Eight… teen years ago?" If she'd been discharged and returned to Camelot before he was born.

"That's before my time, I've only been here twelve. Oh, well. Matthew, show our guest to the quartermaster's office?"

"Thank you," Merlin remembered to say, and she waved him out, already turning her attention back to her own work. He supposed he should be thankful she hadn't taken personal offense to the fact of his gender in relation to citizenship, denying or hindering him just because she could – but maybe away from the capital city, they didn't mind that sort of thing as much? Maybe more women were like his mother and the princess, rather than the twins, Morgana and Morgause.

Further into the garrison.

"How long have you been here?" he asked the back of Matthew's head, from curiosity and for something to say.

"All my life," Matthew answered, quietly and shortly.

They turned a corner and entered another chamber – larger than the tavern's taproom, and divided by great open series of shelves, built of solid and ancient wood, filled with general-purpose items like a chandler's shop. Blankets and clothing, candles and lamp oil, boots and dishes and other minor bits of common use around a soldier's garrison.

A woman he took to be the quartermaster rounded the corner of one of the shelf systems. She was surprisingly short – he wondered if she had a ladder for the topmost shelves – round but tough, with a cap of tight graying curls. She glanced from the shelf at her eye-level to a scroll unrolled in her hands, then back again, up at them without interest, acknowledging the interruption without allowing it to delay her.

"Duty officer sent him, ma'am," Matthew offered dispassionately.

"What for?" She betrayed a professional sort of impatience.

Matthew said nothing, so Merlin offered his own explanation. "She said if it was all right with you, I could look at the records? My mother was stationed here –" she gave him a sharper look – "I'm Merlin," he explained hopefully, "the citizen?"

"Are you really," she said thoughtfully, scrutinizing him head-to-toe like he was an incoming shipment. "Hm. In that case, I suppose you'd better come with me." She tossed the scroll to her desktop as she headed deeper into the room, and Merlin followed, aware that Matthew remained loitering in the doorway.

Another chamber adjoined the first, the shelves here much smaller in scope, pigeon-holed scrolls and stacked ledgers. The quartermaster squeezed past the first row and went straight to the end of the second, lifting one of the larger tomes and tilting it to see the top cover. Merlin leaned back to allow the light from the wall-torch behind him to aid her perusal.

"Last week," she said, her attention on the book, "Her Majesty had a messenger out here, curious about your mother's history."

That surprised him less, on second thought.

"So," she continued, "lucky for you, I don't have to waste time searching for the relevant records. Out of the way, boy."

He backed to allow her passage, then trailed her to the better-lit main chamber, where Matthew waited, presumably to see him out; though no orders had been given to that effect, maybe it was policy not to allow visitors unescorted. The quartermaster turned and dumped the book into Merlin's arms almost too suddenly for him to catch it, before beginning to turn its pages. Too quickly for him to read, but the format of the pages was all the same, lists in columns.

"This is eighteen years ago," the quartermaster informed him. "All the officers in residence, their duties and evaluation summary from the supervisory officer." The pages slowed – the quartermaster knew what she was looking for. "Here we are. Your ma was Hunith – her last year in Ealdor was served as the night duty officer for the garrison prison. One complaint filed concerning an attempted escape. Discharge requested and granted."

"Um," Merlin said, gazing at the page upside-down. "I didn't tell you her name."

The quartermaster's eyes narrowed, and one corner of her mouth turned up. "Maybe I remembered it from the queen's messenger's visit."

He held her gaze a moment, then ventured, "I know I don't… look like her, much."

The hint of her smile quirked a little more. "For a fact, you don't," she said, and hitched one hip onto her desk, careless of the mess atop it. "I worked with her. Came here with her from Camelot, actually, we earned citizenship the same year. I'm sorry to hear she passed – she would have been proud of you."

"She was." Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat, but it took two tries. "She never said – anything, really, about her service, so… whatever you can tell me, ma'am, that these records can't… I'd be grateful."

For a moment she didn't say anything; he closed the book and she took it from him to lay on the desk beside her.

"We both started as assistants to the quartermaster at the time," the woman said, kicking one leg, short and thick, the blue uniform tailored to her unusual figure. "And I don't know how your ma won her arena-trial, she was that soft-hearted always –that's what got her into trouble."

A thought struck Merlin sideways, and for the first time. Hunith and Gaius both had worked toward citizenship for him – freedom. Had they thought much on the fact that he'd have to become a killer, for that? Gwaine and Percival's surrender was unexpected, unplanned. And maybe everyone was just that inured to the death in the arena…

"Trouble," he said slowly. "Specifically?"

"Ask me why, if she was doing good work in the quartermaster's office, they moved her to dungeon-duty, and nights." The woman raised her eyebrows significantly. "We got a winter shipment in from a merchant who'd shorted us – accidentally or on-purpose, didn't matter. The deficit was made up monetarily, and both merchant and commander were satisfied. Except, we were still short twenty blankets for the soldiers in barracks, and first snow falling. So your ma made a fuss… and got demoted for her trouble. I think that factored into her decision to leave, that and the escaped prisoner – the fact that she'd never have the opportunity to move up the ranks, after that."

"Escaped prisoner?" Merlin said.

"They lost two of them – not on her watch, but everyone on that detail was raked over the coals in the investigation, though they never conclusively identified conspirators. One prisoner died, one escaped, but it wasn't half a year after that, Hunith asked to be discharged."

Merlin struggled to assimilate the new information. He'd always assumed it was only because of him, and his impending birth, that his mother had left the military.

"One more question?" he blurted, as the short woman glanced at her own marked candle, the blackened hour-mark that was just melting into the flame. "She never told me, who my fa- my sire was, so I thought maybe…"

"Someone here might know?" The quartermaster shook her head. "I was as close to her as any, and she never said. She wasn't the type to dally, off-hours, or make specific requests of a superior for the use of a soldier she fancied. I mean, obviously she had a lover – here _you_ are – but as for who…" she shrugged. "Sorry, kid. Makes you feel any better, lots of folks never know their sire, either."

Gwaine didn't. Percival suspected, but he didn't know for sure. It was just that… the magic. Merlin had hoped for… more answers.

"So," she said, pushing upright and turning to shuffle pages and scrolls on her desk, putting it in some order that he couldn't recognize, but probably made sense to her. "If there's nothing else, good luck with the rest of your life, Hunith's son."

"Thank you," he said. He would have liked to stay with her, ask more about his mother as a new citizen, as a young officer, but it was clear that she was done. But maybe in the years to come, he'd get another chance to come back.

"Don't mention it. Matthew will see you out."

Merlin wasn't surprised to see the shy slave appear around the corner of the doorway into the hall. The quartermaster didn't look up as he left the room, and then he was glad for the older man. Distracted, he would have been lost trying to find the way out on his own.

"Matthew?" he said toward the slave's left shoulder. "Thank you for showing me about and waiting for me. I appreciate it."

The older man gave him a timid glance. "No one… sees me. Usually." Merlin knew what he meant, but almost tripped in surprise at Matthew's next words. "Hunith did. She saw me, she spoke to me. She was nice, I liked her. I'm sorry she's dead."

"Yes, thank you," Merlin said breathlessly, trying to keep up. "You knew my mother?"

A brief ducked nod. "Knew your sire, too. Well as any here. Save your ma. But I never told nobody that."

"Who?" Merlin said eagerly. "How?" And why would she confide in this slave, what she wouldn't tell her best female friend?

"One of those prisoners," Matthew said, turning a corner without pause. "The ones the quartermaster said? She asked me to help her save them. Help with her plan for them to escape. When she wasn't there, so… no one would know."

"Wait, _what_?" Merlin said, stopping dead in his tracks. "She helped prisoners escape and – one of them was my fa- my sire?"

Matthew rounded on him, shushing him. Pinched his sleeve to draw him back into walking at a fast shamble. "Yeah. Yeah. They weren't here long, but –" he shrugged. "Guess there ain't nothing else to do on night watch in the prison."

Merlin almost gagged on his disgust and disbelief at the suggestion – his _mother_? – and Matthew saw the reaction.

"But talk," he corrected. "Nothing to do but _talk_. And… Hunith liked people. Guess she liked him."

"The one who –" Merlin cleared his throat and licked his lips. "The one who died in the attempt, or the one who got away?"

Matthew shrugged, oblivious to Merlin's distress or simply uncaring. "Never knew that. She wasn't the same, after."

Merlin could well believe. He had to steady himself with a hand on the stone as they passed through an archway and emerged in the small courtyard where the gate led to the street and the town. The tavern, and his friends, and their quest. "What were they charged with, do you know? Their names?"

"Didn't know that either," Matthew said. "They… looked like they could be cousins. And… you look like them. Better than what you knew an hour ago, though."

Dazedly he thought he wasn't at all sure of that. He managed, "Thanks again."

Matthew nodded once, closed-mouthed again as the gate-guard pointed him to the broom leaning against the courtyard wall. And Merlin passed from the garrison to the street.

Nearly full dark. The sky still definable as blue for another half of an hour, though the color was deep, and stars twinkled beyond the lamps lighting the street-corners. Very few people still out, but there were more, closer to the tavern; he could hear them.

His feet dragged to a stop, his shoulder against the wall of some random building, his eyes fixed unseeingly ground-ward. Not all prisoners were _bad_. Gwaine and Percival, as evidence. But. Not just a coward, to avoid trying his magic in the arena, but a criminal. Maybe he'd deliberately seduced Hunith, to help him escape. Maybe she'd thought to go with him, wherever he was going, and so he'd broken out when she wasn't there. Maybe he'd abandoned his companion to death so he could be free, and never spared another thought for Hunith.

No name. If he'd died then, or if he lived fugitive for countless subsequent years. If he was still alive – did Merlin want him to be alive?

He gripped his hair in both hands and gritted his teeth to keep the anger and grief boiling tightly in his chest instead of welling up and spilling over, and then, in that very moment –

"Merlin?"

Unbelievable. The man had the worst timing, or else he deliberately waited until Merlin couldn't possibly be more embarrassingly vulnerable – or maybe Merlin was really just that unlucky.

Footsteps approached. "The boys were starting to get worried, you were gone. Percival told me – you might have gone to the garrison?"

He twisted away from the hand Arthur laid on his shoulder, violently, but without opening his eyes. "None of your damn business," he muttered, having to lower his hands a few inches to squeeze telltale moisture away from his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"It went that well, did it?" Arthur said dryly.

Merlin flung his hands down and blazed, "I hate you, do you know that? I hate you so much, your money and your job and your princess. And your mother and your fa–" He cut himself off before he choked to death on the word, right there in the street.

Arthur's arms were crossed over his chest, expression neutral and blue eyes sharp. And maybe Merlin ought not have left the most important word in his description of what he resented, til last. "This is about your sire, then?" he said. "Look, Merlin, there's no reason to feel badly, lots of people –"

"Shut up you don't know," Merlin said heatedly, taking a step closer, though Arthur didn't react at all. "You had yours all your life and he _trained_ you and – you still _have_ him!" He needed breath and his gasp of it was sudden and painful and his vision was swimming again. "A prisoner, Arthur. A coward and a criminal, they don't even know what his name was or what he did. Whether he died or escaped… my father." The single sob ripped his throat, and he instinctively suppressed the rest.

Arthur's arms uncoiled, swift and decisive, one wrapping Merlin's shoulders, the opposite hand capturing the nape of Merlin's neck. And he found himself resting his forehead on Arthur's collarbone, breathing ale and soap – he'd had that bath after all – and resisting and resenting the comfort he tried to deny that he craved.

"It doesn't matter," Arthur said fiercely in his ear.

Merlin hugged his arms to his chest to keep their bodies separate, but didn't pull completely away – the darkness of the backs of his eyelids made him so tired, too tired to fight. He slumped a little against the lord's solidity, feeling Arthur brace against him and breathe.

"It doesn't matter," Arthur repeated. "What he was or what he did. You are your own man, Merlin, and a damn fine one, you hear me? A fighter, a citizen, a healer. You have family. You _have_ it, and you _know_ it. And you can add to it whenever you choose, you're not alone."

Merlin breathed, and calmed, even if the lord's words were only calculated to soothe and smooth him as a necessary employee. Self-consciously he felt tears seep into Arthur's tunic – then decided, he was the one holding on to Merlin, he deserved the wet patch.

"Okay?" Arthur said, shaking him slightly.

"I still hate you," Merlin told him, backing up as the lord released him – and didn't even seem to notice the damp spot on his clean tunic, though Merlin rubbed a quick sleeve over his face to make sure it was dry.

Arthur huffed, but the corner of his mouth quirked. "Fair enough," he allowed. "Now… let me buy you a drink. It'll help you sleep – and you'll thank me for that, tomorrow."

Merlin took a deep breath, because… after all, Arthur was right. They all, including Merlin, had more important things to think and worry about; this was only a small disappointment. He steeled himself to meet the impersonal crowd of the tavern taproom – and the more intimate eyes and questions of their soldier-companions. "Yeah, all right."

 **A/N: A bit longer, this one, but no one ever minds that. Next chapter moves the guys past Ealdor and out of Camelot (and into some action!), so I wanted to fit this material into one chapter. Also, I promised the inclusion of a certain character to STL13 – I haven't forgotten, that's still upcoming!**

 **And, I don't think there are any new elements from the book to include, except perhaps the growing friendship between Arthur's character and Merlin's…**


	11. Men and Monsters

**Chapter 11: Men and Monsters**

Gwen never moved about the city with less than half a dozen people. Guards, maids, clerks, it didn't really matter, she didn't need them for protection or attendance. The people of Camelot were always friendly to her, or at least polite, but the presence of a group prevented _incidents_ – and assured all the people that saw her, there was no need to worry for their princess alone in the town.

She had not brought Sefa, out of consideration for her maid's nerves. And when her group arrived at the lending-house, she recognized Ihve - years older but hair the same shade, in a similarly-styled braid down her back – but didn't show it. Instead, she graciously nodded at all three clerks alike, on their feet behind their desks.

Because Morgana was waiting also. Dressed in blood-red silk that was finer than Gwen's turquoise linen, made for receiving royalty in-doors, not tramping about the streets.

"Good morning, your highness," she purred, dipping into a graceful curtsy. "We are honored by your visit. Won't you accompany me to my office, I have cooled drinks waiting."

"Thank you, that would be very welcome," Gwen said, leaving all half-dozen of her attendants in the receiving room.

This conversation needed to be private, if she was to accomplish her goal, proving the accusations of Sefa and her sister, one way or the other, finding out more about the transaction with Merlin. She'd debated with herself, how to approach and handle this interview, to get what she wanted. Because it wouldn't do to reveal her knowledge to Morgana and gain nothing she could act on, in return – to make an enemy she'd have to leave in place, especially one more unscrupulous than she. This was not a war she wanted, but neither could she allow people of Camelot – no matter if they weren't citizens – to be murdered without consequence. Then she'd realized that the unfamiliarity worked both ways - they knew little of her personality, thoughts or feelings; they might make certain assumptions.

"It must be quiet about the palace again," Morgana remarked, pouring wine into two goblets from a silver pitcher, cloudy with condensation from the dish it sat in, conjured from ice. Gwen seated herself in one of the provided guest chairs – a level seat and barely padded, short arms and the back nudging her under her shoulder-blades. Not overly comfortable. "With the absence of the two lords, I mean."

 _Here goes nothing. Set the tone, sympathetic but slightly naive, play to Morgana's condescending superiority._

"You are right about that," Gwen agreed, accepting the offered goblet as Morgana took her own seat behind the desk. "I can finally turn my attention back to getting some _real_ work done." Morgana smirked in agreement; males were a distraction, at best. Gwen added deliberately, "Which is what brings me here today... I have come to apologize."

Morgana's fine black brows rose. "Surely there's no need for that."

Gwen hummed, and tasted the sweet red wine. "I was unaware that you held Merlin's loan, when Lord Arthur mentioned complications, and the fact that he'd hired the boy. It was my – caprice, that set Arthur on that course, and it interfered with your business. For that I apologize, and perhaps… reparations are in order? I am ready to donate the sum of the projected interest total of his loan, to your establishment, unless…"

"No, that's really not necessary," Morgana assured her, sitting back and tipping her head in a confidential way. "That amount was… negligible, in fact. It was the surety we stood to gain, once the boy lost his ability to repay the loan."

Gwen found it annoyed her, that the gold hadn't been given with the supposition that the recipient could and would repay it, but that he couldn't, and would therefore lose the surety that was meant to prove the trust between the two parties of the loan. That in itself was enough to bring before the officer of commerce. But to see if they were scavengers only, waiting for the expected failure, or _predators_ …

"The fire," Gwen said, and curled her lips into a sly smile. "Yes, I heard about that. Quite an… unfortunate coincidence."

Morgana laughed – comfortable and confident, exactly as Gwen wanted. "For _him_ , the presumptuous brat."

"What was his surety?" Gwen questioned leadingly. "My impression was that his mother hadn't left him so much as two coins to rub together."

"Yes, but that's the beauty of the loan," Morgana returned. "Because of his magic, and the fact that he was in fairly high demand for siring strongly-magical daughters, I was able to list his own person as surety – this close to owning that boy as a slave." She held lacquered thumb- and fingernail an inch apart.

"And all legal, too," Gwen agreed, grimacing. Though _highly_ unethical – unthinkable, if it had concerned a female recipient. Poor Merlin. "What were you going to do with him – sell him, or keep him for your own use?"

"Oh, lords, no," Morgana said, shuddering delicately. "What do I want with children? No, I am not so lacking for lovers that I'd take him."

Gwen suddenly wondered, if the other woman was jealous of Merlin's magic. If she'd be more accepting of him if he'd barely escaped after a lengthy and agonizing trial, leaving two bodies and a fair amount of his own blood on the arena floor.

"Many would," Gwen suggested, in a _not-you-nor-I_ tone.

"They may yet get the chance." Morgana pursed her lips in a smile. "Tell me the truth – are you really considering Arthur, or just toying with him?" Gwen managed an arch smile, and the other woman laughed again. "I thought so. Arthur's an arrogant bastard – he gets that from his father, and his mother has always been soft on him because she had no daughters. No, Lord Lancelot is better in every way – I honestly believe he'd stop _thinking_ if you ordered him to."

Gwen had to concede, she was probably right about that. At least, he'd do his best, convinced that she had reasons and the right to give such an order. "What do you mean, they may yet get the chance?"

"Arthur drew on his mother's credit to pay Merlin's debt to us," Morgana said, sitting forward and spinning her goblet delicately on the desk before her. "Remove him, and Lady Ygraine will not be likely to retain Merlin's employ for the sum Arthur assumed she'd pay us."

"Remove Arthur?" Gwen ventured skeptically, covering her shiver with a forced sip of her wine.

"The Watch occasionally runs across a group of criminals – deserters or runaway slaves – banded together for safety in their attempt to reach the border." This wasn't anything Gwen didn't already know. "It would be too bad if Arthur's company were to run into just such a group, outside the city." Morgana pretended to pout, then laughed and took a mouthful of wine.

Gwen huffed. "What about my prize that he's supposed to be bringing me?" This role was too easy to play; it made her slightly ill.

"We'll make sure you get it, of course," Morgana assured her.

"The Lady Ygraine, though?" Gwen hinted.

"Will be able to do nothing, if she even suspects," Morgana gave her a superior smile. "Once that boy is marked for enslavement, no one will pay attention to a word he says. If _he_ even suspects."

Gwen shifted her weight, covering it with a petulant sort of flounce back in her chair. "Good. It really is too bad that Merlin is making all this trouble, my mother was right about the unrest that a male citizen can cause. Of course there's nothing we can do about the law allowing women to buy their sons and free them immediately, or to allow the inheritance of titles… if they have the gold for it, of course." She affected a sigh. "But Merlin's success is only going to encourage other boys to try next year, and the year after that and the year after that… and if his new owner sells paternity services, what if he sires males rather than females?"

She herself hadn't thought of _that_ before, Merlin's sons. Skinny little boys with wide innocent blue eyes…

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," Morgana said smugly. "These things have a way of taking care of themselves."

Gwen hesitated, then firmed her resolve and aimed for a tone both ironic and amused, almost approving. "A way that includes slaves dressed in black with their faces covered?" Morgana gave her a quick look, freezing in the act of reaching for her goblet again. Gwen only raised one eyebrow and smiled. "This city thrives on rumor, you know."

"And a queen," Morgana added, heavily significant, "must be informed, isn't that so?"

Gwen felt a brief flash of fear, that the other woman had intuited her intent to expose the Twins to her mother – then realized, Morgana was more likely to be referring to her own future reign, and her and her sister's place in it. "Yes, you're right," she sighed. "Well, if you believe you have the situation with Arthur and Merlin well in hand – and you don't suppose I owe you for my unintentional interference in your plan…"

"We are used to taking care of problems like Arthur anonymously," Morgana assured her, taking a last sip and setting her goblet back; Gwen did the same. "I am glad to hear you won't be unduly affected."

"I was minded to offer assistance," Gwen remarked. "But it seems you need none."

"We shall always be appreciative of your support, however," Morgana told her, with the air of concluding their conversation. "And of course, ready to do your bidding. As any loyal citizen would."

Gwen hoped with all her heart, that the number of citizens willing to do as the Twins had done, was very few. Aside from a bald, _yes we murder young boys and plot to ruin citizens_ , she was fully satisfied with Morgana's confession. And fairly certain Nimueh would take her word over both the Twins, if it came to that. The problem might be, convincing her that Arthur and Merlin, separately and together, were no threat to the crown, and deserved at least the protection of the law.

"Thank you," she said, rising. "For now, I won't keep you from your work any longer. I also have responsibilities requiring my attention."

"Of course." Morgana followed her to the door, escorted her down the stairs.

The clerks, who might have been ready and waiting for her departure, leaped to their feet to curtsy, as did her own maid and senior secretary. The guard-slaves, hers and Morgana's, dropped to a single vigilant knee, before she released them all with a nod and wave.

"Good day, highness," Morgana said, sinking into a smooth obeisance, herself.

"And to you," Gwen returned.

Turning on the heel of her silk slipper, she headed for the blinding glare of sunlight through the open doors, hoping the heat would burn the feeling of corruption from her skin and soul.

Now, how soon could she get an official audience with Nimueh? She wouldn't have the leisure time to gather her own evidence to corroborate that presented by Sefa and Ihve, would have to give it to the queen as anonymous – but without knowing where Arthur had gone, she could not guess how soon he might return, and Gwen needed to clear this issue with the queen before the two men arrived in Camelot to face violence and slavery.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The morning was cool when they rode out of Ealdor, and it made Merlin think that maybe summer's hold on the weather was broken. That, or the gradual climb corresponded with a drop in temperature.

The foothills were still forested, and Merlin realized his jumpiness had more to do with the suggestion of banditry, than fear of his companions raising the subject he was disinclined to discuss further – Ealdor and his parents. Something about his mood and the company and the ale the previous night had persuaded him to reveal… well, enough.

And when Gwaine dropped back to ride alongside him, opening his mouth – Merlin very nearly snapped an order to shut it, even though they hadn't teased him much about his riding or his comfort, and not at all about his family.

But what came out was an unexpected, "We probably don't have to worry about them."

"What?" Merlin said blankly, still thinking about Hunith and a prisoner. About his mother's job as quartermaster, and Arthur hiring him for the same position, about the fact that they'd only purchased foodstuffs… A twig snapped in the trees to his right and he flinched, searching for –

"Bandits?" Gwaine suggested.

Merlin looked back at him to realize he was slouched casually in his saddle, drawing the reins absently through his fingers. The rest of the company – he checked each man – much the same. No greater wariness beyond the border and the reach of Camelot's patrols than the road from capital to garrison. Each one rode easy in the saddle, rather than tensely alert.

"See, every year in the weeks before and after the trials-date, the garrisons really get serious about clearing their sections of the borders," Gwaine explained. "Capture, kill, disrupt any outlaws. So that no one gets any ideas about raiding the capital – or any other estate – while routines are unsettled for our kingdom's most important day." He spoke sarcastically, but not bitterly, and Merlin nodded comprehension. "Afterwards, of course, there's always a few boys who try to run, a few more slaves who try to escape – and the garrison wants to catch them, rather than allow them to join the border riffraff."

Merlin wondered if his father had been – still was? – one of those. And then, "So you're saying, there won't be any trouble with thieves while we're still close to Ealdor?"

"I'm not saying the patrols got them _all_ ," Gwaine corrected easily. "Just, we probably don't have to worry. Six of us, and all armed."

"I'm not," Merlin pointed out.

" 'Course you are!" Gwaine disagreed with a meaningful grin.

"They'll want our horses, though," Percival put in neutrally from behind them, as though they discussed the possibility remotely, from a tavern in the heart of the capital.

"That's true," Gwaine conceded, "But we're all males - they won't attack unaware, they won't know that we aren't coming to join them, after successfully stealing horses and swords. We'd make a good addition to any bandit leader's men."

"Addition," Leon said, over his shoulder – he and Arthur were paying attention, Merlin saw, though Tristan in the lead was ignoring them. "Or territory rival."

"There's that," Gwaine agreed. "But don't you think they'd surround and hail us first, to find out without fighting?"

"If they're at full strength, and not – unsettled, as you put it, from garrison patrols," Leon answered.

Merlin tried to imagine that situation. "What happens when we tell them we're not either? Joining them, or taking their territory, but only passing through? They'll just let us – ride on?"

"Depends on the leader's intelligence," Percival said from behind them. "And desperation for supplies."

"Depends on whether or not they realize that you and Arthur here aren't marked," Gwaine added.

Arthur turned to look over his shoulder, and Merlin met his eyes. "Why would that make a difference?"

"Because we have greater worth," Arthur said, with a slow half-smile, provoking but ignoring Gwaine's snort. "They would know, I'm either a freedman from my coming-of-age, and therefore my mother is both wealthy and fond – or I'm a fugitive that's survived uncaptured the last six years. There's a hefty bounty either way. You they might assume a fugitive, but it's an even bet they've heard rumors of a male citizen, too, and what-does-he-look-like, a big part of that gossip."

Merlin huffed. "How about we just tell them, the women of Camelot don't want me?"

"Yes, they do," Gwaine said slyly; Merlin's face heated instantly, and Arthur's smile still showed as he turned away.

For all the talk of the relative safety of the track into the mountains – further away from the garrison and established civilization, there was no reason for men who preyed off other men to linger – Merlin noticed that Arthur still rode with his hand resting negligently on the hilt of his sword. Conjured, of course, as the rest of their weapons were – not as long as Gwaine's nor as heavy as Percival's – it was plain, as though he and Merlin both superstitiously avoided any impression of assuming or duplicating the legendary Excalibur prematurely.

Merlin wondered if Arthur was just always, that prepared for anything to happen, or if he didn't wholly trust the conjurations – or Merlin. Though he didn't seem to have a problem with the campsite conjurations - bedding, dishes, tents the one night it rained – Merlin supposed the failure of those items would not be as catastrophic as the failure of swords in a fight. And they hadn't had a fight yet to prove the conjured weaponry, though they tested it daily with practice sparring.

The second day took them above the tree-line, and into the trackless maze of peaks and shoulders, passes and valleys. Arthur had a map of sorts that he'd drawn from Taliesin's writings, Merlin assumed, that they paused periodically to try to match to the landscape.

"What if we take the wrong way?" Merlin asked Leon quietly, the third time they halted, about an hour after noon. "Or if we just don't find it?"

"We've got two weeks worth of supplies," Leon returned, unperturbed. "And then, he'll decide whether to resupply and head out again, or give up the quest."

Merlin privately thought, Arthur was not the sort to give up. The question might become, how much of his mother's money or his own pay was he willing to spend – how long would he keep his men searching if they lost faith or enthusiasm – how long would he expect the princess to wait for him to return with results. Because logically, there were limits –

A shadow fell over him, interrupting his thoughts. He squinted up at a high indistinct bird-shape, relaxing into the movement of his mare to retain his sense of balance as he amused himself trying to identify the bird and the distance. Oh, more than one – three, four – but their progress was slow, which suggested to him that they were _high_ , but then the size…

The one he watched moved behind a bare peak of rock, and Merlin dropped his gaze as they passed into a narrow gorge between two cliffs, it looked like from below, with only a gradual downward slant. Maybe an enormous gulley for springtime run-off from the mountain's snow, or maybe there was a river or stream that had dried through the summer… The clop-clop of their hooves echoed eerily from bare crags rising around them as the way twisted.

Merlin was sure he detected the click of rock on rock in the midst of the sound, and focused on isolating it, before realizing that the other men were all silent. Tense, and wary – heads swiveling to watch all directions, but not _obviously_ , as though –

As though they thought they were being watched. By something or someone intelligent enough to notice, its regard had been observed.

Wild men and monsters.

Arthur, in the lead, held up one hand. Merlin's mare halted two steps after everyone else's; the air pressed against his ears in rhythmic thumps. His heart beat, harder fasterfaster – _clatter, clatter_ …

He couldn't stop his head snapping around to look – at nothing but more rock. They should run, he thought disjointedly – could he stay on his mare if they ran? – what if the way ahead was blocked and they had to retrace their tracks what if there wasn't anything there but a funny feeling?

"Here's as good a place as any," Arthur spoke up, so cheerful it drew Merlin's attention in a disbelieving stare. "Dismount and walk, let the horses have a break."

Horses which – Merlin realized, now that they weren't moving anymore – were even more jittery than the men. He stood uncertainly at his mare's head and watched the others spend an inordinate amount of time and confusion moving back and forth, soothing the mounts and fussing with saddle-packs and reins and positions. And realized why, when he and Arthur ended up with the lead-lines of three horses each – Gwaine chattering with Leon several paces ahead of them, Percival silent and Tristan morose, in the rear.

"Bandits?" Merlin said to Arthur in an undertone as their party began to move forward and make appreciable progress again.

Arthur shook his head. "We're too far away from the border. They wouldn't venture so far from supply-targets, nor would they have followed us this long. Unless there are towns somewhere ahead in the mountains that we're unaware of… this is something else."

"Like what?" Merlin asked.

Arthur started to reply, but it was lost in a sudden and unnerving swoop of a shape overhead – from behind one cliff's edge to behind the other, in a slam of sound and wind that prevented identification and died instantly.

Merlin thought, _wings_.

And felt his arms nearly jerked out of socket by the horses' panic, shrieking fit to scrape every nerve raw, beginning with the inner ear. Rearing and stomping, and Merlin scrambled to avoid hooves while not losing the three he held.

"Take these!" Arthur bellowed, stuffing the additional reins he held, into Merlin's hands.

Merlin swore aloud, and for several minutes his entire attention was focused on keeping hold of the horses, and them off his toes. Then he realized he heard the ring of metal on metal and shouting – unmistakable after the sparring sessions he'd watched the other five participate in by firelight. He craned his neck and spun, but couldn't see beyond six still-nervous mounts bumping and prancing about him.

Men or monsters? He couldn't see, he couldn't help!

An idea struck, and he didn't hesitate. Kneeling, he freed a hand to place on the ground, conjuring a heavy ring of iron curving out of the rock – around which he slung and knotted the reins of all six mounts. He leaped up and pushed past the horses to see – men.

Lots of them, rough and ragged and hairy – two or three for every one of Merlin's friends. They were holding their own, he believed, though he couldn't see all of them – he looked for Arthur, who was fighting two at once.

"Merlin!"

He didn't recognize the voice, but he whirled to see another savage attacker strike at him, sword raised high to chop like Merlin was kindling to split. He gasped and flung up his hands, forming _steel_ –

In a circle that spread – and hid his attacker – and caught the blow with a shock that shuddered through his arms.

Dropping the shield slightly, he recognized an arresting astonishment on the man's face, gaze fixed on the solid metal that formed from midair. Merlin reacted again, slamming the top edge of his shield forward into the man's face with all his strength. The attacker's head snapped back and his body dropped limply to the dust.

Merlin spun, searching out the others, spaced fairly evenly in a protective circle around the horses; several more bodies littered the ground, but none of his friends. He saw Arthur duck past a charging assailant and slice across the man's back – and turn to face another even before that one arched, screamed, and fell. Leon was next closest to Merlin's other side – he ducked sideways to avoid a blow, slammed his left fist into the man's face to drop him before loading another bolt into the crossbow in his right hand, lifting it to fire at another attacker further away.

In the space of three gasped breaths, it was over, at least as far as Merlin could see past the herd cluster. Some prone bodies were moving, some were still, some retreated into rocky folds in the cliff walls.

Arthur let them go.

Watching warily, backing a step of his own before he turned to stride toward Merlin, his bloodied sword a comfortable extension of his body – and he thought incongruously, the lord had been right about being his own bodyguard. Arthur's expression was intent as he studied Merlin head to toe as if searching for an injury. Merlin managed a smile; Arthur's mouth began to pull sideways in response.

"You're fine," he demanded. It was very nearly more order than query, but Merlin nodded.

Then the lord turned his head – still coming to Merlin – to check on the soldiers and their mounts, and Merlin saw blood. First on Arthur's neck, dripped on his skin and smeared on the collar of the white shirt he wore beneath the leather tunic.

"You're bleeding!" he exclaimed.

Lowering his conjured shield to lean against the side of his knee, he reached for the lord, one hand on his shoulder and one on his chin, turning him so Merlin could better see the wound. There was blood in his hair, rusty-red clumping the golden strands together in a short fall from an unseen cut in his scalp.

"I took a bit of a knock, but I'm fine," Arthur said, trying to look back at Merlin.

"Hold still," Merlin ordered, firming his grip on Arthur's unshaven chin. In his free hand he conjured a soft cloth, then water to soak it, and began to dab at the spots of red, and ruffle the bloody hair to clean it.

"We don't have time for this," Arthur growled, but held still. "I don't think we've seen the last of these fellows."

Merlin made a skeptical noise, but rubbed a little faster, paying less attention to cleaning the blood away thoroughly, than to finding the actual break in Arthur's skin to examine. He could feel Arthur's tension, from impatience rather than pain, and just as the lord was about to pull away – "I see it. It's just a small cut, less than half an inch…"

Already clotting closed. But ugly-dark in the pale skin of the lord's scalp, and a lump was beginning to form as well. Merlin grimaced in sympathy.

"Tend to it later if you must," Arthur said. "We're vulnerable here –" Merlin realized that the others hadn't joined them, but rather kept their positions in a loose protective circle around the horses.

And there was movement at the top of the cliff. Both cliffs, as Merlin crouched and turned his gaze upward – _monsters_.

"Arthur!" someone bellowed; it sounded like Tristan. " _Dragons_!"

Merlin had never seen anything like them, crawling into view. Narrow scaly faces, like snakes with nose-ridges and skull-spikes and rows of teeth, bat-like wings of fifty-pace span. Two on each side of the gorge, perching like gargoyles on the palace roof – leaning forward as if eager to attack. There were men on the ridges beside them, tiny as –

As one, the dragons arched back, opening their mouths in a cacophony of roars that raised every hair on Merlin's body in warning and he _knew_ what they would do before he saw it.

 _Fire._

All four of them at once, breathing flame down on his five friends and their horses, and there would be no escape. Arthur reached for him without looking, but Merlin was already bending for the shield, thinking that it would be –

Useless, and so –

He dismissed the metal, but… Shield, he thought. Shield.

Stone-metal-wood – no. Too heavy, for the size he needed, and against fire – water? no – dragonfire would be ten times worse than his clinic burning around him.

Vaguely he noticed the others ducking spontaneously. Merlin straightened, lifting his hands.

 _Shield_ , by damn.

He closed his eyes and braced and felt –

Nothing but the barrage of sound, continuing. Beating against his heart and soul, pressing on his chest so he couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe til the dragons had finished their deadly exhalation and those things were bigger than he was and their lung capacity meant that this could last _forever_ …

Merlin staggered, blinking black spots away from blue sky, as flames licked the edges of his vision and receded. His arms were horribly heavy and so he dropped them, and all he heard was ringing silence as Arthur twisted in his crouch to stare at Merlin with inexplicable astonishment. The lord mouthed words that seemed slow and muffled and unimportant.

Until his eyes shifted past Merlin, and widened in alarm. As Arthur surged to his feet, Merlin turned to see yet another dragon – red-brown and rough like an animated chunk of the cliff-wall itself – diving toward them. Down into the ravine, close enough to touch the ground if it wanted – teeth bared, alien eyes narrowed.

And it carried a man.

Merlin glimpsed him – clothes and hair billowing with their speed, standing on the monster's cradled forepaw, one arm around its wrist-joint for balance – before the dragon was upon them. This time, Merlin ducked as well, and heard the horses shrill and whinny again as it passed over them. Close enough to smell, wild and sulfur - and the buffet of air knocked Merlin tumbling.

His body tensed to stop, and he dropped his hands from an instinctive protection of his head and face and neck to see the dragon's man roll easily to his feet and stand facing them, hands empty and slightly outstretched in a gesture of pacification.

The dragon had _dropped_ him?

In his shock, Merlin had no thought of rising until Arthur moved into his field of vision – limited as it was by his chin-to-shins sprawl in the dust. The golden-haired lord stepped warily toward the stranger, sword bared but pointed down to the side.

Merlin's scramble to his feet was interrupted. By Leon and then Gwaine, one kneeling and holding him down gently, the other skidding into a near collision and roughly searching him for injury.

Leon said, "Slowly, Merlin, are you all right?"

Gwaine blurted, "What the bloody hell was that, mate? Are you hurt? And who the bloody hell is that?"

Merlin's eyes were on the stranger as Leon and Gwaine – satisfied that he was fine but for bruises, maybe – lifted him cooperatively to his feet. The man was dressed in close-fitting black – boots, trousers, shirt, vest – the dark of his shoulder-length hair and beard lightened with silver. He stood confidently but not aggressively, feet apart but hands clasped over his belt.

As they spoke, Arthur's frame seemed to lose some tension, also. He dropped his head as if studying the ground between them – or thinking very hard – and the stranger's gaze shifted over Arthur's shoulder.

Right to Merlin. Whose heart thudded once, painfully hard inside his bruised chest, before Arthur twisted to look at him also.

 _What?_

Then Arthur beckoned.

And Merlin stepped forward, aware in a distant and unquestioning way that Leon had restrained Gwaine from following. Arthur looked grimly unhappy – disappointed in himself for some reason - but there was no hint of surrender about him. The stranger was harder for Merlin to read. Tough and maybe not yet fifty, and brave, he supposed, to approach and speak to them alone.

"Merlin," Arthur said. "This is Balinor the Dragonlord. My lord – Merlin, a citizen of Camelot."

"You don't have to say _lord_ ," the stranger said to Arthur, though his eyes remained keen on Merlin. "Just Balinor is sufficient."

"Dragonlord?" Merlin said, glancing up to see that the fifth – and largest – dragon, the red-brown one, had perched upon the cliff-edge above them in the closest position. Now that they weren't breathing fatal fire – they were amazing. In a terrifying way, of course, but still… fascinating. He said to Arthur without thinking, "Men and monsters?"

"They're not monsters, boy," the stranger, Balinor, said immediately, pointing a reprimand at Merlin that he felt as deeply as he ever had Gaius' raised eyebrow. "They're ancient creatures of powerful magic and keen intellect and you would do well to respect them."

Merlin felt a rare sort of rebelliousness heat his heart – _exhausted_ and _sore_ shortened his normally easygoing temper. "Perhaps respect comes easier for someone who's not trying to kill my friends."

Arthur laid a cautionary hand on Merlin's forearm, but Balinor seemed to have taken no offense.

"We protect our homeland from invasion," Balinor said mildly – and because he didn't pause and because Arthur _squeezed_ , Merlin didn't fire off another rejoinder. "Which brings us to the question, who you are and why you're here." His eyes were still on Merlin, who cooled a bit at the reminder of their quest and its importance.

"Lord Arthur is on a mission," Merlin began, angling his body as a hint for Balinor to direct further questions to the group's leader.

"He told me," Balinor interrupted with a quiet sort of authority. "I asked _you_. Who you are. Why you're here."

"I'm just – Merlin," he said, confused. "I'm here because – I work for him." Arthur shifted his weight, but said nothing.

"But you're the conjuror," Balinor pressed, taking half a step closer. "That shield was _yours_."

"His ma is rich and mine never was," Merlin retorted. "And even a conjuror needs to eat real food." He felt a bit shaky and light-headed and tried not to show it to either of these two men. The situation felt shaky, too – he didn't think he could hold off all the fire the dragons were capable of pouring down on them, would they do it if Balinor was still here, if Arthur decided to seize him as hostage because they couldn't reconcile their differences…

"A citizen, you said," Balinor squinted, tipping his head as if to see Merlin's neck for proof.

He sighed and shoved his hair back, turning. Maybe a haircut like Percival's would have its merits.

"And the rest of your men, who are they?" the dragonlord said to Arthur, after a moment of consideration. Whatever he read in Arthur's eyes that Merlin missed, the older man added, "I assure you, you need fear us no longer, none of our number will attack you again, man nor dragon, you have my word."

Arthur studied the lined, bearded face – and Merlin was glad the choice to trust or not to trust, wasn't _his_. The young lord turned without taking his eyes from the elder and raised his voice. "Men! on me."

Merlin heard their boots approach on the rocky gravel ground, watched the dragonlord with his dark eyes – sad eyes, he thought – watch the other four.

"Cousin, son, brother, father," Balinor said, slowly and deliberately, searching them out as if labeling them.

Merlin at least was surprised when the dragonlord's gaze ended on Leon, who met Arthur's eyes, then Merlin's, Gwaine's, Percival's, as he shrugged. "I've sired two daughters," he admitted with a small smile of melancholy pride. Tristan shuffled, granite-faced and impatient, and Merlin saw there was blood on his jaw, trickling down chin and neck.

Balinor inhaled, and spoke again. "Royal and slave, healer and killer, wild and tame, cup and sword. It's true, then. And your quest is for the sword."

He stated it, a guess of certainty, and though Merlin felt his own eyebrows shoot up, Arthur didn't bat an eyelash. "You've read Taliesin?" he said, his tone bordering on sarcasm. "All the way out here?"

Beneath his beard, Balinor smiled. "Kilgarrah was old when Taliesin was young."

"Kilgarrah?" Merlin said.

"The Great Dragon." Balinor pointed, but only Merlin glanced up at the biggest red-brown creature; Arthur kept his eyes on the dragonlord. "Prophecy and riddles are second nature to them."

"Well," Arthur said, too polite, "this has been interesting –"

"The fight or the talk," Balinor interjected, and the smile was gone.

"Both… but we have to be on our way."

"What of our men?" Balinor gestured again, and Merlin looked once again, past their four companions – alert but at ease, weapons casually ready in their hands – to the bodies, unconscious or dead.

"You said none of your number would attack us," Arthur reminded him. "You gave your word."

But men were dead, friends of this dragonlord who lived both wild and free beyond Camelot's borders. A kingdom with no allies, and they'd have to return this way, if and when they were successful; Balinor's knowledge of the prophet and the king's sword seemed to indicate they were on the right path.

"What if we host a feast tonight," Merlin spoke up, "in honor of your fallen?" Both men looked at him. He glanced at Arthur, uncertain of the lord's reaction to his initiative, under the circumstances.

"How many men are you?" Arthur asked Balinor, and without waiting for an answer, told Merlin, "We don't have the supplies for something like that."

"No, I meant… I could conjure, a feast." After a moment of uncomprehending silence, Merlin added, "They'll be twice as hungry in the morning, but for tonight, I can do as much food as your men can eat, anything you ask for, as well as wine or ale or mead… Maybe again on our way back, for… safe passage?"

Arthur switched his gaze from Merlin to Balinor, waiting for acceptance or rejection. Merlin was glad neither of them said incredulously, _You can do that?_

"On behalf of my community," Balinor said slowly, "I accept your offer."

"You don't have horses," Arthur said, making an assumption and an offer. "Ours can carry your dead and injured, back to your – community."

"No need," Balinor said. "The dragons prefer to undertake the service – it'll be faster. From here it will take us two to three hours, though it isn't out of your way. I will guide you."

"Thank you." Arthur inclined his head respectfully, shifting to see that the other four had heard and understood.

Merlin leaned closer to the dragonlord. "How many are you?" he asked softly.

One bushy gray eyebrow quirked – but he still didn't ask, was Merlin sure he could deliver on his promise. "Forty… two, now. Along with half as many women and children."

Sixty or seventy. But the feast he'd conjured for Gaius, his last night, might have filled twenty men, at least. "Okay, thanks."

As he turned away, another voice addressed him, a voice that reminded him of the rasp of sharpening stone on blade-edge steel. _How small you are, for the choice of destiny you face._

He knew immediately who had spoken, and he resented the remark. They'd been attacked, Kilgarrah's brother dragons had tried to incinerate Merlin's friends and it had drained him to protect them and now he faced another great and hard task to make amends for their self-defense and to balance a delicate situation not really of their making.

"Why don't you come down here and say that?" he muttered. "I bet everyone looks small from up there."

"What did you say, Merlin?" Arthur asked.

"Nothing." Merlin gestured. "Talking to the dragon."

Balinor swung around to stare at him – then at the Great Dragon, who appeared both motionless and bored; Merlin wasn't fooled.

"As if it can hear you from all this way," Arthur scoffed – but sent a quick glance upward and corrected himself hesitantly, "He?"

"I bet he can," Merlin countered.

The other four fell in around them as they returned to the horses – who seemed to have calmed at the lack of imminent threat, the great and unfamiliar dragon-creatures having kept their distance and their peace, after the single fire-attack.

"Conjured ale – I'm looking forward to this," Gwaine remarked.

Tristan snorted, and Percival touched Merlin's shoulder lightly – reassured when Merlin nodded, indicating he was all right, and would be all right. He couldn't detect any other injuries on his friends as they turned to organize themselves for riding, but conjured cloth and water again. Tristan swung about with a glare when he ventured to nudge the back of the older man's shoulder; Merlin offered his conjuration, nodding wordlessly to the scrape that had bled down his neck. Tristan stared a moment, his light-brown eyes narrowed, then snatched the cloth away from Merlin.

Merlin counted it a victory – if a small one, comparatively – that the soldier kept the cloth as he mounted, and began to swipe at his neck, rather than giving it a heave into the rocks. No one else said anything, and that probably helped.

Arthur handed him his reins, but stopped him reaching to turn his stirrup for mounting. "Listen, Merlin…"

"What is it?"

"That – whatever you conjured. That shield." Merlin had never heard Arthur at a loss for words; it caught his attention to the lord's discomfiture. "It saved – all our lives. The horses, all our food… Your magic has… won our way forward. I just want to say, if you consider your debt to me repaid today, I will not oppose your return to Camelot, if you choose."

"That's, _after_ I conjure the feast," Merlin said lightly, taken a bit off-guard at the sincerity behind Arthur's offer.

But the lord said nothing about Merlin's promise to the dragonlord, or the further benefit to his quest the fulfillment of that would bring. He only turned and swung up into his own saddle, watching Merlin and giving him the time to think over his answer.

Merlin stuck his boot in the stirrup, hopped twice before getting his weight over his left leg to swing the right over his mare's back. He gathered and situated the reins unnecessarily as a distraction, noticing that he and Arthur were in the lead now; Balinor, waiting a dozen paces ahead of them down the gorge, turned and began the journey to the hidden location of his community. Merlin's mare started on an easy walk a moment after Arthur's mount.

"No," Merlin said to Arthur. "No, I… don't think so. We'll keep on with you til you return to Camelot, and then, if you feel I've earned enough as your quartermaster, like you said, we'll call it even. I don't…" He twiddled a bit of the mare's dark coarse mane-hair between his fingers. "I don't like the idea of saying, this amount is the value of your – of anyone's – life. That's… that's priceless. You can't – you shouldn't – talk about gold in the same sentence."

Which sounded more ridiculous than it had felt, on the inside of Merlin's chest. People were bought and sold every day from the slave-market. He risked a glance to see if Arthur thought that too, if he'd managed to offend the lord, rejecting the offer.

But Arthur wore his lopsided smile, as if he were perfectly pleased with Merlin's response. He sighed in relief, and held out his hand, bobbing weakly in the air between them, even as he let himself lean forward against his mare's neck. A small glass cup, a single dose – not too terribly difficult, but he was really, very tired.

"For the pain," he told Arthur's uncomprehending acceptance of the cup, then relaxed almost completely, hunched over into the mildly jolting pace and mane-wisps on his face that were surprisingly, not uncomfortable. "Your head hurts, doesn't it?"

Arthur huffed and downed the conjured medicine in one gulp, gesturing minutely with the empty cup so Merlin could dismiss it.

"Go ahead and rest," the lord told him. "You need that, don't you? You'll be busy tonight…" Merlin's eyes slid closed and the last thing he heard – and trusted - was Arthur promising, "I won't let you fall."

 **A/N: According to the book, the quest party was attacked by… nomads, I think. And the conjured feast to pacify them, that idea was from the book as well. I honestly thought I was going to get the reveal of Merlin's paternity in this one (Percival's pov), but – it'll have to be next chapter…**

Catherine10 – Thanks for reviewing, glad you're liking the developing Arthur&Merlin! You know I ship Freylin. But for this story, Merlin's only just turned 17, Sefa is a year older than him, and her sister is older than her (remember Morgana's clerk with the braid?). There's a chapter upcoming where the reader is going to have to decide, whether Freylin is still a possibility for this story. But, if that's a yes in your mind too, I think Freya could be an underage nobody right now, and in a few years, once Merlin is established and certain laws are changed, they can still meet somehow and fall in love, etc.

FairyGoatMother – Thank you for your compliments! I'm glad you're enjoying the story – that's the detail I aim for, just enough and not too much. And good job connecting the dots – you're absolutely right, though Gwen hasn't quite got there, yet!

And, Guest – Both of us should be relieved you're not familiar with the book this was based from – again, I don't recommend it generally speaking. I have to give credit where it's due, but I'm glad I've 'translated' it for Merlin consumption interestingly!


	12. Dinner and Discovery

**Chapter 12: Dinner and Discovery**

The feast Merlin spread was tempting, to say the least. Percival had chosen one of the seats furthest from the banquet table, but when the twilight breezes eddied, the aroma was tantalizing.

He'd eaten rations from their own supplies, so at least he wouldn't be hungry, but still had to remind himself more than once, this effort would take a lot out of his boy-master and was intended for members of the dragonlord's community; it would be selfish of him to take even the smallest portion.

But oh, it was tempting.

To distract himself, he watched the strangers. The dragonlords themselves were not readily distinguishable from the other men, and he respected that as much as he was glad the dragons themselves kept to remote cliff-side lairs. If he never saw another dragon that close again, it would be too soon. He could still close his eyes and see the splash of deadly white-orange-red flame filling his vision, just overhead – and inexplicable untouchable. Percival had fully expected that moment to be his last. Gwaine had said the same, afterward as they rode to the community's location, and without his roguish grin.

"It looks good and it smells good."

He looked around to see Arthur standing between two of the five-foot torches flanking the makeshift eating area set up in the center of the village.

"Did you try anything?" the lord added, gesturing with the horn cup in his hand. "See how it tastes?"

Percival looked back at the banquet table, set at right angles to the two long eating-tables. He couldn't make out much between the bodies of the crowd, sitting standing or walking, but glimpsed Merlin to one side in a cushioned, high-backed chair. The lanky boy was completely relaxed to allow himself to rest, but his eyes glittered open, watching the people enjoy his conjurations. Smile on his face.

"No," Percival answered. Arthur moved around him and stepped over the bench to seat himself in the empty space next to him; Percival twisted sideways, resting one knee between them. "It just… didn't seem fair."

"There was plenty," Arthur commented. "I think, because the women were smart enough to eat at least a bit of real food – and they made the children do the same, before they were allowed to sample the conjured treats."

Percival had noticed that as well; the men seemed perfectly willing to wake up hungry, to indulge themselves tonight. "It's kind of odd," he said, "seeing the interactions of male and female, outside of Camelot."

None of the men were subservient, none of the women arrogant – Percival didn't suppose it was perfect, or without its difficulties, but there was no fear, no resentment. Something to think about. There was also, no animosity shown to them, in spite of the few dead and more injured from the earlier altercation – though Tristan and Leon remained close to Merlin's position, on Arthur's orders, Percival thought. Gwaine was drinking with a group of the strangers, his particular talent of befriending anyone instantly in full effect – and to the benefit of their party. Though if Arthur had recommended that – even recognized it – he'd be surprised at the lord's powers of observation.

Arthur grunted agreement. "Speaking of being outside of Camelot… I have to confess, I did watch to see what you and Gwaine would do."

Percival didn't understand, and conveyed as much with a quizzical look.

"The laws of Camelot regarding slavery, don't apply beyond the borders." Arthur's smile was crooked and wry. "Merlin didn't think of that, did he, when he agreed to come with me, and bring you two?"

Percival huffed. "Probably not, but it wouldn't have mattered. He wouldn't have left us behind – and we won't leave him, here or anywhere. It's not about lawful ownership, though, it's…" he hesitated, unsure if the other man would think him simple-minded for the sentiment. "It's like, we belong together now. By our own choice."

Arthur nodded, focusing his attention on his cup, to let the moment of deeper emotion settle into both of them unselfconsciously. "I can't say I envy Guinevere," he said. "Centuries-old prejudice will not dissipate overnight. It may take a generation or two. Hard work and perseverance."

As long as she wasn't doing it alone, Percival thought. He didn't know the princess well, but one thing he'd learned in the corps – a single man could do twice as much in a group with a common purpose, as by himself. "That's what the sword is for?" he said in a low voice. "Help rally folks behind her?"

"I hope so," Arthur said. "And possibly, it'll help rather than hurt, if we manage to return with an understanding, if not an actual alliance, with–"

In the first second after the lord cut himself short, Percival thought he must have remembered who he was talking to – a former soldier and slave – then changed his mind about so frank a political discussion. Then his glance followed Arthur's focus, and he recognized their guide, stepping out of the dim between two torches, across from them. Balinor, he'd caught the name, one of the dragonlords, himself.

The older man lingered near them, aware of them but keeping most of his attention on the crowd of his people in case his presence was unwelcome. Glancing over to catch any indication that Arthur would initiate a conversation.

And he did.

"You know," Arthur remarked, raising his voice to address the gray-bearded man. "If your territory was marked on our maps, we would have taken a route around, to avoid any unpleasantness."

Balinor shifted his weight, smiling, then turned to kick one leg, then the other, over the bench across from them. He planted his elbows on the table comfortably. "If we were on your maps," he said, "your queen wouldn't leave us to live a single moment in peace."

Percival wondered how true that might be. Arthur cocked his head slightly.

"Our queen," he said. "What do you know of our queen?"

"Enough to ask you to reconsider your quest," Balinor said frankly. "Your conjuror proved that you have the right to continue past our guardianship of the way, but if your queen gets her hands on Excalibur…"

"It's not for her," Arthur corrected, "it's for the princess."

"That's as it may be. Intentions are not guarantees." Balinor lifted his head to gaze into the darkness toward the dragon-caves. "We hear, the queen may have little confidence in the daughter she bore and raised to the throne – her magic is not strong, nor is her stand on male suppression."

Arthur had straightened as the dragonlord spoke; Percival felt the same astonishment. Guinevere wasn't arrogantly superior nor cruel – he'd seen that himself, and Gwaine said the same, after his brief meeting with the princess. But…

"How can you claim that sort of insight?" Arthur inquired narrowly.

"We send men across the border," Balinor admitted. He glanced aside at Percival – who saw that the older man had already judged them for men who not betray his confidence to the queen he apparently considered an enemy. "To Ealdor, mostly. Sometimes further into Camelot, sometimes the dragons take a few of us to other garrison towns. We are not border bandits, thieving for survival – but we do have former slaves among our number who can walk any street of Nimueh's kingdom unnoticed."

Percival couldn't help his gaze dropping from the dragonlord's eyes; his hair covered his neck as conveniently as Gwaine's did. And Percival's close cut did nothing to hide his – Balinor's eyes were sharp on his nearly-healed brand above his tunic collar.

"It's Percival, isn't it?" the older man said to him. "I would very much like to hear the full story of your young master's arena-trial."

"You should ask Merlin that question," Percival said. He'd already decided, that was one he'd never tell, even with Merlin's permission, even though it had been a public spectacle. Because, to him, it was private between the three of them.

The dragonlord probably saw that in his expression; a smile that still seemed a bit melancholy, spread wide beneath his beard and crinkled the sides of his eyes. "Merlin," he said, and straightened as if to study the boy through the crowd. "I tried to speak to him earlier, but…"

"He was busy," Arthur said, not to excuse but to explain. "And conjuration like _this_ –" he gestured at the crowd and feast – "takes a lot out of a person."

"He's got no energy for niceties?" Balinor suggested, but not as if he'd taken offense. "I'm curious – where is he from? What do you know of his parentage? The prophecies are quite vague on several points."

"He grew up in Camelot, but his mother was from Ealdor," Arthur answered, giving no more away than Merlin himself would want; he didn't even have to glance at Percival to gauge the effect of the extent of information. "Stationed at the garrison, moved back to the capital to raise him. Bought a physician's slave who had magic, to educate and train him, though both of them died before he became a citizen."

"Ealdor. Is that right," Balinor said absently, but nothing more, and Arthur's attention was wandering back to the people surrounding them.

"Have you been – in Camelot – many times yourself, my lord?" Percival ventured.

"The title isn't necessary. Just Balinor, if you please, and… not for a very long time." Balinor admitted, with a wry twist of his mouth, "My last trip was almost eighteen years ago, and did not go well. The other dragonlords – my father especially, may he rest in peace – decided it was too dangerous for those of the bloodline to cross the border."

"Too dangerous," Arthur said, and tilted his cup to his lips. "This from a man who leaps from flying dragons?"

Flash of a grin, nearly hidden behind the beard, but it struck Percival with a feeling that was both familiar and fleeting – though it left melancholy in its wake, again. "My cousin and I," the dragonlord said. "We were kids. Barely older than your Merlin. Far too arrogant to walk the streets of a Camelot garrison town, but we tried anyway."

"What happened?" Percival said, interested.

"We were caught." Balinor's sad eyes crinkled with a brief and self-depreciating smile. "I escaped, finally, but… my cousin was killed."

And why – did that sound – so… Percival held very still with an effort, trying not to betray his sudden suspicion.

Arthur said – far too casually, of course the coincidence had occurred to him as well – "How did you escape?"

Balinor shifted, swinging one leg back over the bench as if in preparation to depart. "There was a woman – a girl. One of the guards at the garrison prison helped, she and a slave she was friends with. And you two ought to know, that's saying something, for a citizen of Camelot to be friends with a slave…"

Before he could catch himself, Percival thought dazedly, _Like mother, like son_.

He turned his head to look at Arthur, blond hair haloed and profile etched in the torchlight surrounding the open-air communal dining area. It wasn't his place – but he'd do it if Arthur didn't. And Arthur might not, might not want any personal considerations disrupting his quest, distracting his men – especially his conjuror – dividing loyalties or causing delays…

"It sounds," Arthur said deliberately, "like you were in love with her."

Percival's head swiveled to stare at the dragonlord, now. Because he knew what Arthur was doing – sounding out the older man before he committed to revealing anything. It occurred to Percival, Arthur might decide to tell Merlin the content of the conversation later and leave the decision of connection-forging up to him, if the dragonlord was mocking or dismissive.

But Balinor had gone utterly still, his dark eyes glittering deep and dark. "I have never married," he said. Hoarsely, as if confessing to two ambiguous strangers against his will pained him physically. "Because I could not marry her."

Percival almost said, _Why not?_ But that, wasn't his business. And obviously there would have been obstacles to such a match – treason, if an officer left her duty to ally with a foreigner…

Arthur said, "Hunith."

Balinor inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, twisting on the bench to lean forward over the table, hands braced. Conversely, Percival let his breath out in a sigh of release.

"How do you know that name?" the dragonlord grated.

"Merlin's mother," Arthur said.

"What?" Balinor said – for a moment searching out the conjuror stationed at the distant banquet table – returning his attention to Arthur.

"He visited the garrison when we passed through Ealdor," Arthur went on, calmly and almost compassionately. "He was looking for news of his sire, since his magical talent far surpassed that of his mother. It was a – hard blow for him, hearing that his sire was a prisoner. Escaped or killed, he didn't know."

"Hunith. Oh, lords, what have I done?" Balinor said faintly. "And, you said… she's dead now?"

Arthur nodded, reaching to take the older man's upper arm in a firm grip, as Balinor dropped his head to breathe through the pain. Percival couldn't imagine. He'd never thought of one woman more than another, and never any like that. He wondered if the dragonlord had kept any small secret hope to find her again someday, that now had died as well. His sympathy was interrupted when Balinor abruptly slammed his fist on the tabletop hard enough to make Arthur's cup jump, turning to glare into the darkness.

"Kilgarrah," Balinor growled, "how _dare_ you keep this from me?"

"Beg your pardon?" Arthur said.

"Bloody dragon probably _knew_. They speak only to one of us, by habit." Balinor shoved the fingers of both hands through his hair. "And the timing… and I can't insult Hunith's memory, suggesting it was someone else… By the Lady, I have a… _son_."

Percival tried to keep his beaming joy inside. It felt almost as good as if he faced the man he thought father, and heard his mother tell them both, _yes_. But Balinor would have a different perspective, a different feeling, for what he'd _lost_.

"He's a good man?" Balinor went on, dropping his hands, glancing questioningly from Arthur to Percival and back. "That shield – this feast – obviously his magic is amazing."

 _Does he get that from you, then?_ Percival wished these questions that were inappropriate for him to ask, would quit occurring to him.

"He spared you two in the arena," the older man continued hesitantly, looking to Percival, then Arthur again, "and joined you on this quest. What – what else is he like? You haven't gotten him involved in something that's going to get him hurt?"

"He's brave," Percival said, in place of answering the loaded question about Arthur's quest. "Full of hope, in spite of everything." Balinor's eyes asked a wordless question and he answered, "Only male citizen in Camelot?"

"And lords, he's so young, to have gone through all that alone." The knowledge of everything this particular young man had experienced, had obviously become more personal. Balinor didn't see Percival frown, having dropped his head down again.

"Not alone," Percival corrected, and held the older man's searching gaze til he nodded, acknowledgement and gratitude.

Then Balinor stood suddenly, staring toward Merlin's position – but dropped back down on the bench with a thump to lean toward them again. "Should I tell him?"

"Can you let him ride away tomorrow morning without telling him?" Arthur said quietly.

Percival looked at him. If Merlin knew his father was here, was it certain that he'd ride out with them in the morning? Would Arthur release him from the contract if he elected to stay – but could Arthur force him to go?

"What about his arrangement with you?" Balinor said, probably thinking the same thing.

Arthur shrugged as if he didn't care, but the set of his shoulders was tense. "It can be re-negotiated."

For a moment longer, the older man studied them – then shoved himself up determinedly, heading toward the banquet table at right angles to theirs, at the far end.

"Not a criminal, nor a coward," Percival remarked to Arthur, who made a thoughtful noise. And Percival could not see his expression from behind, as they both watched Balinor stride up the length of the table.

The feast was drawing to a natural close. Stars winked beyond the torchlight flicker, and maybe half the crowd had already dispersed from the area. Merlin was evidently still keeping an eye on the event; he was out of his seat and coming to meet the dragonlord as if anticipating an additional request. Percival did not envy Balinor, in that moment. He spoke, gesturing with his hands, and Merlin's expression faded from tired but cheerful – to blank – to _closed_. His arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched in a way that was disappointingly familiar to Percival.

He shook his head violently when Balinor paused, speaking quickly – then stilled as the dragonlord put out a hand to touch his arm, so suddenly it alarmed Percival. Merlin's eyes dropped to the ground, and he retreated still further into himself without taking a single step, as Balinor continued.

A shrug, another shake of his head.

A shuffled half-step back when Balinor reached for him again – quick glance upward and quicker handful of phrases before Merlin turned away. And a stonier expression Percival had never seen on his boy-master's face, not even the morning after the fire at the clinic.

Arthur put a hand on the table and rose – Percival only a second behind – but Merlin didn't look toward them, heading instead for the tent nearby where their company was to spend the night. Pushing almost blindly, it looked like, between Leon and Tristan. Arthur's two soldiers turned to watch after the boy – and Leon at least wore a concerned expression as they decided to let him go, and instead headed for Arthur. Leon paused to speak across the table to Balinor, but Tristan continued on to them.

"Something happened," the older soldier assumed.

"Balinor the dragonlord was incarcerated in Ealdor garrison eighteen years ago," Arthur said neutrally. Percival felt like stopping him – but didn't figure Merlin would want to be the one to tell, again. "He escaped with the help of a young officer named Hunith."

Tristan's lined face didn't change, but his tone was softly incredulous, "The dragonlord is Merlin's sire?"

"So it seems," Arthur said, on a sigh.

Tristan twisted as if searching for someone or something in the crowd, then turned back to Percival. "I don't suppose I have to tell you this," he growled, "but your friend is drunk. You should probably handle him so Merlin doesn't have to, tonight."

Percival tried to show no surprise at Tristan's rather backhanded solicitation, and only nodded. "After the kind of day he's had, I expect he'll fall asleep fast and hard again. And long, likely as not."

"We'll take as late a start tomorrow as he needs. Regardless," Arthur faced them both as Leon concluded his conversation with Balinor, and came toward them also. "Let's all give him some time and space, before we retire, tonight."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had not expected to sleep, that night. In spite of the drain on his magical resources, conjuring a feast three times that which he'd done for Gaius on the old man's last night.

He thought, he'd put the disappointment of what he'd learned in Ealdor, behind him. Dead or alive, name or crime, he might always ache to know, but he could accept the futility of _wondering_. Arthur had told him, _you have family_ , and that had helped, maybe more than the young lord knew.

But _now_ … Now he knew. It was unsettling to find that family added to, suddenly and inadvertently, after striving to come to terms with the permanent uncertainty.

Not a criminal, exactly. The charges against Balinor, eighteen years ago, might have been espionage, the sentence death – but the group motivation, self-preservation rather than attack-preparation, made all the difference, to Merlin if not to Camelot.

Not a coward, either. Not a native of Camelot at all, to choose the arena, or not. A foreigner.

A dragonlord. That, Merlin had a harder time grasping; he'd never expected that discovering his father's identity would change his own. A strange and powerful heritage that had run unknowing in his veins all his life. What did that mean? He had the idea that there was a great deal for him to learn – responsibilities laid on him – that he could not ultimately choose to walk away from.

Physically, however…

Balinor had not gotten to the point of saying, _Stay_. Not in their aborted conversation, and maybe not in his own sudden realization of the relation. It was a question that would need an answer, however, before Arthur's company departed the dragonlord community.

But Merlin had fallen into an exhausted sleep even before his companions had entered the tent they were meant to share, and he'd never heard them come in.

Heard them now, though. Gwaine was snoring, and if Merlin turned his head, he could see Arthur. Lying on his stomach on a thick pallet next to Merlin's – probably to keep off the bruise on the back of his head – his further arm curled up around his head. The pre-dawn gray was still too dim for Merlin to be sure the lord wasn't staring back, but his immobility indicated slumber.

They had stared the night before. Merlin had cast one confused, self-conscious glance over his shoulder before ducking through the tent-flap; he'd seen the four of them clearly. Leon, Arthur, Tristan, Percival, all in a tight knot of intense concentration. Percival looking away toward where Merlin had left Balinor; Arthur lifting his head to follow Merlin –

So they knew.

This morning, watching the material of the tent slowly come into focus, he couldn't decide if he was glad for that, or sorry. It would be strange, trying to assimilate the information into his sense of himself, without wondering if his friends around him were thinking some of the same thoughts, when they looked at him. Although, that right there assumed Merlin's answer to the unspoken suggestion, _Stay_ …

And he'd slept, instead of deciding what to do.

Slowly, carefully – quietly – Merlin maneuvered himself up off the pallet he'd chosen by way of collapsing on the first one he'd come to, last night. Percival shifted and Leon rolled from his side to his back – but no one spoke to stop him, or moved to get up. He assumed they still slept – and slipped through the tent flap. It was early; Merlin was surprised he'd woken on his own, after yesterday's conjuration, but he felt fine, if not exactly energetic.

The cliffs around looked gray, without the sunlight, a maze of heights and valleys. Comments he'd heard at the feast hinted that the community kept fields and livestock, somewhere nearby, but that the dragons patrolled and guarded not only the village, but… something more. The sword, or the way to the sword, or something.

In looking about, Merlin's eye fell upon the figure of a man seated on a rock only five paces distant from the tent. Dressed in close-fitting black, shoulder-length silver-shot dark hair and beard, one foot propped on the base of the rock and the other extended in relaxation, intent upon some small task in his hands. Balinor, the dragonlord.

Father.

Merlin shivered once. He supposed he was luckier than most that Gaius had provided the role of father as he grew up, but he was unaccountably nervous to deepen this association. What if the man thought him clumsy or foolish or slow? What if he didn't think Merlin was worth Hunith's sacrifices, or the dragons' heritage?

 _Silly_ , Merlin tried to convince himself, and set his feet resolutely to bring himself closer to the older man. Hadn't Balinor come to tell him of the incredible coincidence of the truth? He probably owed him an apology for retreating so precipitously from shock and emotion he did not feel himself in any condition to handle.

But Balinor spoke before he could.

"I couldn't sleep." He noticed that Balinor held a small curved knife and a chunk of soft light wood. "So I set myself where I could see you when you came out of your tent. Where you could see me – even if you walked the other direction."

Merlin felt immediately ashamed – slightly resentful of the older man's affect on his reactions – then thought, it had probably not been Balinor's intent to reprimand. "I'm sorry about that, last night," he said. "I don't usually – it's just that – what you said, was…"

"Overwhelming?" Balinor glanced up at him, eyes dark with contained emotions, and Merlin felt a disorienting lurch, as if he were the one facing a grown son who was a stranger, hoping to be accepted, forgiven… "Now that I know to look for it, I can see your mother in you."

Merlin braced against the pang of grief. It was too soon, for him. No one else had mourned Hunith except Gaius – who was gone also.

"I'm sorry," Balinor said softly. "I'm so sorry. I know it was recent – you can't imagine how much I regret… what I can never make right, now. I wish…"

Merlin didn't know what he wished to be different about his past. If anything. "She was sick, a long time," he said. "Increasing weakness, but not a lot of pain." Gaius had made sure of that. Merlin privately thought it was because his mother worked too hard to provide for three of them, but it wouldn't help Balinor to hear that.

The older man – his father – ducked his head in a nod. "We didn't know," he added. "About you, when I – when your mother helped me escape."

It was odd for Merlin to think, he'd been there too, even unborn and unknown. "If you had?" he dared to ask. To hope.

Balinor drew in a long breath, and exhaled slowly, resting the knife on his thigh as he looked toward the mountainous horizon; the block of wood and the emerging shape was hidden in his large hand. "I said to her, _come with me_."

Merlin swallowed an involuntary gasp. So his father _had_ loved his mother, had wanted to be with her, and make a life together. At least enough to make the offer – but that meant _so much_.

"Now, knowing about you, I like to think she would have said yes, if she had known then, but… maybe if she couldn't come, only for herself, her heart wouldn't have been in it, no matter what. She had oaths, you see, that she would have had to break. And maybe she didn't think that our relationship, as fast as it happened and under such unusual circumstances – thrown together in the quiet of night with nowhere to go, and nothing to do but talk about ourselves. The grim situation I was facing, charges of spying and execution, my longing for home and freedom in contrast… Maybe she didn't think what we had, was enough to last, without eventual regrets on either side. And I, could not have stayed… though if we'd known, we might have worked something else out. If she'd stayed in Ealdor, I could have come to visit –"

"It would have been too dangerous," Merlin said immediately. Hunith would not have wanted her lover sneaking into a town where he'd already been caught before and might be recognized again. That constant worry was nothing for anyone to live with.

Balinor gave the dawn-tinged mountains a stubborn grimace, but allowed, "Perhaps. In any case, she said, it should be goodbye. She didn't want me to try to contact her, didn't want me to tell her how to contact me."

Merlin wondered if she would have decided differently, if she'd known then that she was carrying her lover's child. And when she birthed a son, she could have considered taking him out of Camelot to his father's people, rather than spending almost everything on a slave to teach and train him to risk his magic and life achieving citizenship. He was a little surprised she hadn't at least warned him about the dragonlord blood – though maybe it was to keep him from the dangers of seeking out his sire, maybe especially after he'd become a citizen. He couldn't imagine that would help his position in Camelot at all, were that rumor to circulate with the others.

"That shield you conjured," Balinor said, dropping his attention back to his carving as he retreated to safer, slightly less personal conversation ground; Merlin was glad for that. "To protect all your companions and horses from the fire of four dragons. What material did you use? You dismissed it too quickly for me to see for sure."

Merlin shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I don't know."

Balinor looked up at him with a single quirked eyebrow. "How is that possible?"

"It's not supposed to be," he admitted. "You can't conjure something if you don't know what it's made of."

"Evidently you can," Balinor said.

"Is it – maybe something to do with – being who I am?" Merlin suggested hesitantly, gesturing between them to indicate shared blood. "That – power and – ability, is that inherited like conjuration?"

"Not exactly. It's passed to a dragonlord's oldest son, upon his death. With a couple dozen requirements and complications."

"Things you have to learn, and train for?" Merlin guessed.

"Usually." Balinor lifted his carving to blow shavings away, but too quickly for Merlin to identify it. "The ability is passed involuntarily, but it's best and easiest for dragons and fledgling lord, if he understands and anticipates duties, as well as powers."

Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. As an objective choice, he might lean toward leaving Camelot if he couldn't build a home and a life there, depending on their return and reception, to live here with family. Make friends where his gender wouldn't be held against him and his magic would definitely contribute, and Gwaine and Percival would be free in every sense of the word.

But to be told, he didn't have a choice…

The fluttering sound of tent material behind him distracted him; he turned to see Tristan emerge, stretching his lean frame, turning to see Merlin and Balinor.

Merlin said without thinking, "Be careful of that, when you're shaving." He touched the side of his own jaw to indicate the scrape on Tristan's face.

"Not something _you_ need to worry about," Tristan retorted, but the tone of his mockery of Merlin's youth had subtly changed. It was inclusive humor, not a jab intended to force Merlin back; he responded with a wry grin, before the lone-wolf soldier sauntered off.

But it seemed the others were awakening as well. Leon and Percival said only a polite, "Good morning," though their eyes and expressions were similarly careful to assess Merlin for mood and physical wellbeing, all of which he appreciated – concern and distance.

Gwaine had no such reservations, approaching immediately with an eager grin, as he combed his long hair with his fingers, and shook it out. "Morning, Merlin – morning, Merlin's father," he said cheerfully. And before either could so much as react, he went on, addressing Merlin, "I feel great, even though I must have drunk a ton of wine last night, and twice as much ale."

"That's the conjuration effect," Merlin reminded him. "It's dissipated, so – no hangover."

"Excellent!" Gwaine said, eyes twinkling. "I have a great idea – we should open a tavern when we get back to Camelot."

Merlin couldn't help smiling, though he saw that his father was not quite sure what to think of Gwaine. "Can't," he informed his long-haired friend. "It's against the law in Camelot to sell conjured food or drink."

"There must be a way around that," Gwaine said. "Maybe if we had a place just over the border – or mix a little real in – or, say! have a singer or something as entertainment, and sell tickets to the performance as a cover for conjured drinks…"

"Lords, Gwaine," Merlin said, amused. "Let's at least get back to Camelot in one piece before you start figuring out how to get us in more trouble."

He felt Balinor's eyes on him as he realized what he said, though at least Gwaine didn't indicate he'd heard anything of particular significance.

But, yes. He did figure he wanted to return to Camelot with Arthur, having seen the quest to its end. He was the hired quartermaster, after all – even though Arthur could purchase the items Merlin supplied from the community, and the lord might not even grudge him asking to reconsider the offer yesterday, to let saving their lives stand for the debt. Staying here meant Gwaine and Percival likely would as well, and Merlin couldn't bear the thought of Arthur continuing with a half-strength party into danger unknown – and then never knowing if he'd made it back to Guinevere, or how Camelot had accepted them. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't a choice, one _or_ the other – rather, one and _then_ the other.

"I suppose that means there isn't any left this morning, either," Gwaine said, moving off toward the village center – hopefully in search of breakfast as well as a drink, and would remember the rest of them if he found it. Likely the men of the community would be waking and wanting something substantial to fill their bellies.

"I wasn't going to ask you to stay," Balinor told him, when they were alone again, "although of course we would welcome you, and I have to say, at some point –"

"I want to come back," Merlin blurted. "I do, I want to – I mean, there's so much for me to learn – that I should learn, that I want to learn, but for now, Arthur…"

"For now, Arthur what?" the lord said, close enough behind Merlin to make him jump.

Arthur had moved quietly, coming out from the tent; just now he was finishing the buttons on his tunic and Merlin couldn't see his expression, with his chin to his chest. But Balinor didn't say anything, only applied his knife to the wood, and when Merlin couldn't put his feeling into words that wouldn't embarrass him, Arthur looked up again, unreadable.

"I didn't mean to interrupt the two of you, this morning," the golden-haired lord said. "But I did mean to ask you about the sword, last night."

Balinor lifted his head to look at Merlin before Arthur – and he figured he knew what topic had arisen to distract them.

"You said, Kilgarrah was old when Taliesin was young – does he know where Bruta hid Excalibur? Would he tell me?"

"Yes, and probably not," Balinor said. "For the same reason that Taliesin didn't include a map in his written work. The one who would find and draw the sword of legend, must first prove himself worthy of bearing it."

Merlin wondered if _himself_ was a generalization, or if only a man could wield it. "How?" he said.

"The quest itself, right?" Arthur said to Balinor. "There's meaning in the journey, the search." The older man exaggerated a nod of silent affirmation.

"Yesterday," Merlin said slowly, addressing his father, seated next to him on the rock, "you said, bringing us here would not take us out of our way. So do _you_ know where the sword is?" And if he did, would he expect Merlin to press the advantage of their relationship, siding with Arthur as seeker rather than his father as guardian? Would Arthur expect that of him? He didn't look at his employer.

Balinor let both hands, carving and knife, fall to his lap, and turned his head slightly toward the distant cliffs where Merlin understood the dragons slept. "You proved your right to pass," he said slowly; Merlin wondered if Balinor meant, Arthur or him. "Kilgarrah… withheld something from me that I do not believe he had the right of choice, to do so. In the interests of _not interfering with destiny_ … which is a fat lot of nonsense."

Arthur's eyebrows rose and Merlin almost snickered, wanted badly to repeat Balinor's advice about respecting creatures of magic – but he didn't quite dare.

"Destiny does as it will," Balinor continued. "Through our knowledge or ignorance, through our action or hesitation. Perhaps he anticipated the discovery of the information without his involvement, perhaps he foresaw this, my reaction, and wanted it…" He turned to Arthur, gaze dark and intense. "There is a lake where you will find the sword. As Bruta was dying he instructed a trusted knight to commit the precious artifact to its depths. If you head northeast from here, there is a pass that cuts back east-southeast just before a double-peaked mountain. In that valley is a small river, and a waterfall – behind the fall is a passage that will lead you to the lake."

Arthur lifted his head to study the peaks visible from where they were, mentally calculating. Merlin had spent his whole life in one city, but his sense of direction wasn't bad. It was his impression that –

"So our route curves," he said. "And from the lake, it will make more sense for us to enter Camelot south of Ealdor, rather than returning this way."

Balinor hummed agreement, turning a whimsical smile on him. There was sadness in his eyes, still, but there was also an _acceptance_ that Merlin appreciated deeply.

"Us?" Arthur said softly, to him. If it was anyone else, Merlin would have added, _hopefully_. "You're coming, then?"

Instead of answering, Merlin took leave of his father with a glance and walked several steps – toward Arthur initially, so the lord would accompany him and he could speak privately. "I wish you would not keep asking me that," he said, feeling a bit immature and foolish, and irritated at both of them for it. "I suppose I'm too young to claim, _I'm not a quitter_ – but that's not the sort of man I want to be. I said I'd do this, and I will, unless you make it clear I'm not wanted or needed."

Arthur was wearing his oddly-pleased half-smile again. "It wouldn't have been right for me to assume," he said, "or demand, but Merlin… I am glad you've chosen to come."

 **A/N: I'm sorry I didn't get Gwen pov into this chapter – next time, then, I promise! Only thing I disclaim is the conjured feast, and the effect of conjured alcohol – that's down to the book this is based on…**


	13. A Queen and a Lady

**Chapter 13: A Queen and a Lady**

If Gwen didn't know better, she might have said that her mother was avoiding her; it was two full day before she could get the queen alone for longer than a handful of moments.

She wasn't particularly happy that she had to schedule time with her own mother, but Nimueh seemed more amused by that than anything else, so Gwen put her personal dissatisfaction aside to make the most of the time she had. At least, Sefa had reported, Morgana had not seemed to think her visit anything out of the ordinary, and so had not been to see the queen, as far as Gwen knew.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Nimueh said with a smile, curling up in one of the guest chairs in her office, sky-blue silk hugging her curves and accentuating her eyes.

Gwen could not be comfortable in so casual a position, but she did her best to relax. "A few days ago, I heard a disturbing rumor, about certain prominent citizens who might or might not be involved in a conspiracy of murder."

Nimueh's eyebrows rose slightly, and she leaned forward over her knees, but she didn't speak.

"I went to the one accused, to see what truth there might be in the matter, but without revealing the rumor or the source." Which would be done in a judicial hearing, for the one accused of a crime to be able to offer explanation. "And I am satisfied that the rumor is true enough to begin an official investigation." Which would include certain steps against the Twins, limiting movements and contacts and funds.

"Why bring this to me?" Nimueh said. "We have court officers we pay to deal with this sort of thing."

"Yes, I know." Gwen threaded her fingers together in her lap and squeezed. "It concerned me enough to bring to you, because of the identity of the victims, as well as those responsible. There are other lives that hang in the balance, other judgments that might be influenced, and there isn't time enough for an officer to add this to her schedule and deal with in due course, without further probable loss of life."

Nimueh considered, then nodded. "Enlighten me. Who is involved, what judgments and lives are affected."

Gwen took a deep breath and let it out. "I accuse the Twins, Morgana and Morgause. Of murdering an unknown number of underage persons, and also of using their business assets - slaves and reputations and monetary resources - to unduly manipulate the life and fate of at least one citizen of Camelot."

The queen let herself sink back, blue eyes sharp in an otherwise expressionless face. "Explain further, if you please."

Gwen knew that her mother would not want to believe it of the two women, so she allowed the urgent sincerity she felt to enter her voice. "I believe they've been using their slaves to murder boys with the potential to try for citizenship in the arena. Making it look like an accident or illness – Morgana essentially admitted it to me."

It was Nimueh's turn to inhale slowly. "And… the other lives you mentioned, other judgments?"

"Our male citizen this year must have escaped the notice of the Twins til now," Gwen explained. "But since the day of the arena trials, they've plotted to manipulate him into a situation where he'd voluntarily accept slavery. I'm afraid, Your Majesty -" _and please to heaven, take this the best way possible_ \- "they've been persuading you that Merlin is dangerous, and Arthur by association, because of this general prejudice and the specific grudge they hold against Arthur's family. Morgana admitted to me as well, that when the lord's party returns to Camelot, they intend not only to intercept and interrogate them, but to attack and murder Arthur at least, any attendants probably, and to bring Merlin at last to the slave-block."

"Hm." Nimueh unfolded her limbs, rose and began – not to pace, but to amble slowly about the open area of the office. "And you feel… their actions are illegal. Their motivation… immoral."

"Yes," Gwen said, a bit surprised. That her mother had needed to ask – that she was taking this so calmly. "The standards that Camelot was built upon, safety and peace, the laws that govern and protect our citizens –"

"Safety and peace," Nimueh interrupted. "And if you had read your history _properly_ , you would know that such is not possible if males start to earn citizenship, and wield magic comparable to ours."

"What are you saying?" Gwen asked uncertainly. She felt she should push to her feet also and face her mother – her queen – standing, but her legs trembled and she could only clutch at the arms of the chair.

"Do you suppose any citizen, even ones so powerful as the Twins, would be permitted to exercise lethal prejudice at random," Nimueh suggested with a gesture and a flash of her eyes, " _against_ royal policy?"

"Royal _policy_?" Gwen repeated. "Do you mean…"

Oh, _lords_. The arena-trials night, and Gwen had declined to place her own exclusive bonds upon the new male citizen. And the Twins had come – summoned, of course, it could not have been otherwise, in the middle of a banquet – late and in secret, to confer with the queen.

And now she had the strength to rise, even if only to put her chair between herself and her mother, gripping the back of it for balance and support. "Do you mean," she repeated in a low voice, "that you _knew_? About Merlin – about all those other young boys? Do you mean, you _ordered_ the Twins to see murder done, to keep any boy from attaining the rights of citizenship?"

"When you are queen," Nimueh said deliberately, watching her like a hawk, "you will make sacrifices also. The few, for the good of the many. And your own sensibilities in the process."

Gwen felt dizzy and ill. The platitudes sounded good and proper and acceptable – but so terribly misapplied. "I will _not_. I will…"

What, though? Moving against the Twins was moving against the queen, and couldn't be done, and now they all knew she disagreed, but her authority was only secondary – she scrambled to organize her thoughts, to choose the best course of action for this minute… hour, day, week… She wished she had come to this interview as she had approached Morgana, with suspicion, and hiding her own thoughts and feelings. But even as her world fractured and tilted, she was not ashamed of the choice and act of putting her trust in her mother and her queen. Only terribly disappointed that her trust had been betrayed.

"I," she said breathlessly, locking her eyes on the rich wine colors of the rug. "I see… what you mean. A ruler sometimes… has to make choices… when there's no good choice to make… and not knowing what will happen… in the future."

Was she talking about Nimueh, still, or herself?

Gwen startled as her mother reached to lift her chin – she hadn't realized the older woman was so close, and she couldn't quite hide a twitch of revulsion.

"No," Nimueh said, and smiled narrowly as she shook her head. "No, you cannot dissemble with me. I know you too well, have known you all your life. Lords, if Elyan had been born female – he showed more magic at two, than you did at twenty. Such a waste."

Gwen took a step back, horrified now as well as sickened. "My brother had magic?" she whispered. "Was he one of – those boys? You had your _own son_ killed?"

Nimueh's perfect face hardened into porcelain. "The queen's first child, and with magic – a _male_? Does it not occur to you, what _conflict_ would come of that? No; sacrifices are made, as I said. Now, what to do about _you_."

Gwen stumbled on the fringe of the rug in backing all the way to the door, though she had no clear idea what to do or where to go. Shadows danced and grew around the edges of her perception, and the most grotesque of them was the figure of the woman she'd sought to love and emulate, all her life. In that moment, though, she wondered if Nimueh would have her killed also, for what she knew. Prejudice notwithstanding, she thought there might be a significant percentage of their citizens who would protest, if they knew their queen ordered their sons' death.

"I will have no insurrection," the queen declared in a low voice. "Not from those two boys – not from you. Your magic and your mind have always been too feeble for my liking, but I am past the ability to replace you as heir…" Nimueh took a step closer, eyes gleaming blue fire. "Though _you_ , are not."

 _What_? Gwen's hand found the latch of the door, yanked it open – only to have an enormous slave block her way.

"Take the princess to her chamber and lock her in," the queen commanded him. "She is not to leave without my permission, nor may she have visitors. Regular meals brought to her."

Gwen thought wildly of _running_ – but how many servants or guards would obey her, rather than Nimueh?

"Your duties will be turned over to others," Nimueh said to her. "Having spoken such treason, your usefulness to the crown now lies solely in bearing a daughter to continue my line. You may expect a male of my choosing to be sent to you within the week, and you will not be allowed to leave your rooms until you have conceived."

Nimueh gestured, and the slave stood aside to let Gwen pass. She suspected he'd have no qualms taking her by the wrist and dragging her, or throwing her over his shoulder, to carry out his orders.

She didn't move, though, until her mother had stood several moments with her back turned. Until it sank into Gwen's heart like a jagged rock in a spring of water – she wasn't going to turn. Wasn't going to laugh like it was a joke, wasn't going to wake Gwen because it was a dream…

Gwen stepped over the threshold and began the walk down dim corridors toward her own room – her prison, now, it seemed. All very unreal – was it possible for life to change so radically in one moment? An irreversible change – she couldn't see any way out. Excited nerves coiled into a hard knot that sunk deeper in her belly with every step.

Her mind and heart had been rejected by her family, her country. Now she would serve with her body, like a prostitute. Like a slave.

It occurred to her to wonder, when a daughter was produced, what would become of her, then?

Accident, or illness?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival figured it said a great deal about Arthur, that he told them the directions the dragonlord had given them, before their departure, to the resting place of the sword. Not only that he trusted them, but that he was observant enough to know that he could trust them. Not a one of them had any desire to claim the sword for himself, and Arthur knew it.

So they found the double-peaked mountain. At first appearing as one, the lower peak edged into view as they rode, like a shy child keeping close to a parent. The angle changed slowly, but before too many hours passed, it looked more like two brothers, each with an arm over the other's shoulder, elder and younger.

The path, such as it was – unmarked but picked by Arthur in the lead and followed by the rest in turn – occasionally hugged the northern side of a sister mountain on one side, and dropped away steeply to the other, though wide enough that not even Merlin was nervous. He rode easy, reins neglected as his dutiful mare followed the others.

Percival, who kept an eye on him as a matter of course, noticed when Merlin shifted and reached into one of his saddlebags. The object he removed was small and indefinable at the distance, but the way he handled it made Percival curious. At the first widening of the path, he nudged his gelding closer alongside Merlin's mare.

"What is that?" he asked.

Merlin glanced up at his companionship and question, but looked back down at the object for a moment, before passing it over with a smile of quietly satisfied joy.

A little wooden carving, crude but obviously a dragon, in the attitude of crawling, with its wings half-extended, up and back. A light wood, and roughly done, but Percival figured it would be smoothed and oiled by Merlin's fingers, in time.

"My fa- um, Balinor gave me that, before we left." The smile had not budged, and Percival felt an echo of that feeling, to see it.

The carved dragon was a bit childish for Merlin's age – legally a man, now - though Percival rather thought Balinor's attempt to make up for his involuntary absence when his son was growing up, was well received by a young man far more relieved than disappointed, by what he'd discovered in his sire.

"You can say _father_ , none of us will mind it," he told Merlin, leaning in his saddle to pass the carving back. "Even though only Arthur knows his sire." And even though Camelot in general might shrug off the relationship as inconsequential after conception.

"I don't imagine he calls him _father_ ," Merlin commented, with a touch of good-natured humor.

" _Sir_ ," Percival guessed, in the same tone, before a narrowing of the path encouraged him to drop back again.

At the end of the first day they found the pass. It was similar to the wide ravine where the dragonlords had ambushed them, but steeper, both up and down, narrower, and rockier. Percival judged that a clever driver with a nimble assistant could get a single wagon through, but only just. He also began to suspect that he could tell when his boy-master was thinking of his sire, and he was probably not the only one.

Merlin would get a faraway look in his eyes, then a smile would hover around his mouth. And when he shook himself back to the reality of the moment, he would be twice as cheerful.

It made for good morale for the whole group, though no one mentioned it. Percival was glad for him; he was strong and he was brave, but he was also very young for the pressures of his unique citizenship. Percival privately thought, the knowledge that he had a place with the dragonlords' community whenever he wanted it and for however long he chose, was a significant support for present actions and choices.

"He'll go back to them someday, you think?" Gwaine said to Percival, the second morning when the two of them were filling water-skins at a small stream-and-pool coming down from rockier heights. "What about you and me, then?"

Percival took a moment to compare, mentally – life for them in Camelot, and life here in the mountains. "You mean, because the laws governing slavery in Camelot, don't apply outside the border?" The very thing Arthur had mentioned, he'd been watching the two of them for.

"Mm hm. You and me are free right now, do you realize? Come time to walk back across the border… do you suppose we should?"

Percival rocked back on his haunches, studying his friend. He had already settled the fact of his service to Merlin particularly, the young man's need of them and his treatment of them as equals. But Gwaine was wilder; he might chafe under peacetime service.

"I think we should," he said, his emphasis deliberate. "As for coming back here with Merlin – I think a lot will depend on what happens when we return to Camelot with Arthur's prize."

"There's a helluva lot of possibilities," Gwaine agreed, at least half-serious – and probably cheerful at the prospect of physical conflict, himself.

They followed the little stream, in and out of the rocks, and found the river only a few hours later. It was narrow and swift, because of the downward slope, and valley a generous term, in Percival's opinion, but the lateness of the season meant there was a generous verge to either side, that would accommodate them without too much difficulty.

Arthur climbed to the highest safe vantage point to survey the land, upstream and down, hands on his hips; Gwaine picked an argument with Tristan as to which direction should be taken to find the hidden lake, up- or down-stream. Leon watched Arthur for his decision, and Percival watched Merlin wander along the stream-path they'd taken to reach the river.

And when purpose gathered to his movements and he drew further away without glancing about – or back – Percival whistled for the general attention of the group. Clicking his tongue to encourage Merlin's mare and his own gelding, he followed his boy-master upstream, ignoring both grumbling and questioning from the other soldiers.

Arthur watched for a moment before making his own way down and toward Merlin, following without calling him back – and Percival was assured, then, the others would come.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin loved the moutains – seeing them from a distance, traveling through them and over them and around them. He decided, he also loved rivers.

This one babbled and rushed, played and lunged and threatened – and settled back into banks. He thought, if the others would stop talking and the horses stop moving, he might be able to understand what the river was saying…

He was listening so hard, he noticed the rest of their surroundings but vaguely. That didn't matter; the waterfall was audible long before it was visible. Around a corner, and there it was, finally – a cascade of white rushing and tumbling from higher up in the rocks, down to join and form the river.

And the valley ended. If indeed there was a tunnel behind the water, it was the only way to continue, and he guessed, without the horses. And if they hadn't been told the passage was there, they would certainly have turned around discouraged, to search fruitlessly elsewhere.

Choices, he thought. Knowledge and ignorance, action and hesitation.

Just before the waterfall, the bank of the river fell gently away, and sparse scrubby grass-plants struggled to survive. They dismounted – Merlin clumsily, but he blamed that on the distraction of the waterfall, thundering and misting. He heard Arthur assign Tristan the responsibility of remaining with the mounts, but other instructions or directions faded into the repetitive but varying pounding of the water.

Merlin stepped closer, feeling tiny droplets gather on his face, listening –

Arthur's voice, Arthur's hand on his shoulder. "Merlin!"

For a single instant, Merlin could've sworn that the drops of water _rose -_ playfully resisting the pull of gravity and natural law - and _sang_.

But he was jolted back to himself by the lord's fond sarcasm. " _Behind_ the water, not _into_ it, idiot."

Arthur took a generous pinch of Merlin's sleeve to drag him along, and he turned his head, unaccountably stiff, to see Percival inching out onto a ledge that led right to the waterfall. His big friend cupped a hand over his mouth to holler back to them.

"There's a bit of a gap! We don't actually go through the water, just behind it!"

Gwaine was next, hands up to tie his long hair into a tail at the nape of his neck; behind him, Leon shouldered a small pack containing rations. And Merlin followed Arthur. The ledge was narrow but not dangerous, wet but rough enough to maintain footing. The arc of falling water did leave a gap from the rock behind it, but the passage was invisible up to the point of entry.

Inside, it was damp and dim – Merlin ducked his head slightly by instinct, and braced his hands on either side – but it was short. Arthur he could see silhouetted against daylight in front of him, and Leon beyond that, but Gwaine was just stepping out of the passage when he entered, and Percival already out of sight.

And when Merlin emerged – Arthur moving away to the right – he stood absolutely still and marveled. Yes, he could well believe this was a magical place. He could _feel_ it.

The lake formed the bottom of a natural basin, rimmed by hills and peaks, and the tunnel seemed the only break for entrance. From this side, they could see that the stream gushing down from higher springs and watersheds split – one side roaring down to hide and guard and protect the entrance, the other trickling and pattering down to feed the lake. The placidity of the body of water allowed for sparse shrubbery and scrubby trees, short hardy ground-cover – none of which hid the sparkle and ripple of the water.

He followed the sounds of his companions' voices, and came out on a gravel-and-sand verge – likely covered by water in early spring, now left bare in late summer.

"…Search around the shore for any signs or clues Bruta may have left," Arthur was saying.

Percival stood with his feet apart, both hands shading his eyes, the better to see to the further side. Gwaine was already picking his way around to the right.

"Maybe we should separate?" Leon suggested. "It would take half the time, and it's not that far across – a good shout should be heard no matter where…"

Merlin stopped listening. Maybe the sword was waiting for Arthur, maybe it was calling for him to prove himself worthy in some way, but Merlin had the inexplicable but unshakable feeling that the lake was waiting and calling for _him_. He dropped unceremoniously to his rump and began to pry off his boots.

Then his socks. Then he hastily, clumsily rolled his trousers-legs.

"Merlin, what…?"

He lifted his head to see that they were all looking at him, even Gwaine from a dozen paces along the bank, though it had been Arthur to speak. Merlin pushed himself to his feet, and gestured.

"I'm going in. At least, a little ways."

The water was a cool shock on his feet, the surface lapping and the muddy bottom shifting as he waded out, moving slowly, carefully – respectfully. When the ripples tickled halfway up his shins, he stopped.

The rumble of the waterfall was muted, the late afternoon sunlight softened by a distant peak. The ebb and flow of the shore-shallow water rocked like a heart-beat, humming – he closed his eyes to listen and believed he could almost catch the intention of a tune, past that to glimpse words –

"Merlin!"

Startled, his eyes flew open as little waves swelled toward him in a narrow section like a path, like a track, like a _wake_. And surged upward scant paces from him – a vertical column of water, to which gathered more waves from all around. Washing upward, leaving more definitive shape when they receded, only to leap upward again in a rhythm that was more awe-inspiring than frightening.

It took human form, finally, a female form. She looked like crystal, skin and form-fitting garment shining with a thin layer of lake-water that trickled upward just as often as down. Her arms and hands were loose at her sides, her hair rose above her head, short but each lock curved and curled to the tips. Her lashes were starry fine points, the orbs of her eyes a faint gray-blue in contrast to translucent marble skin. There was no movement of breath, no movement at all, still Merlin sensed there was deep and uncanny _awareness_ there; she looked at him.

He was reminded of his meeting with the princess. Hoping to avoid offense, he gave a little bow and spoke first. "My lady."

"Your coming has been foreseen," she said.

Her voice was lilting and liquid and nearly blended with the distant waterfall. Undeniably powerful and _other_ – but there was no hint of malice. Nor of compassion, but possibly… curiosity? She cocked her head, and – though her eyes held no detail of iris or pupil – her gaze shifted behind Merlin.

"Having reached your goal, my lord, why do you hesitate? Come." More reassurance than order.

Merlin heard a shuffling on the scree behind him, but found he had no desire to turn away from her. Not from fear of what might happen if his back was turned, but from a yearning sort of fascination to watch her, even to be closer to her. He felt the ripples wet an extra inch of skin on his lower legs and was unsurprised when Arthur moved into view, just beyond arms-length to his left. Without his boots and socks… without his sword. Without expression.

"My lady," he said, with a courteous half-bow, himself. "We have come in search of –"

"I know what you seek," she said, and somehow it was not an interruption. She came closer with a drifting motion, the hem of her crystalline garment swirling as if just brushing the surface. "I know what you seek. What the sword represents… and it may yet be yours. But be warned – nothing worth having comes without price."

"I was not prepared to offer tribute," Arthur said, a very faint note of uncertainty entering his voice for the first time since Merlin had known him. "But, anything we have or can procure, that you desire, is yours."

"Payment will be required, when your prize is claimed," she said softly. Sunlight on brook-pebbles, kindly but impersonal. "Just what that will be, is for you to determine."

Arthur opened his mouth, and Merlin anticipated his argument, but the lady, the water-spirit, raised a single hand – calmingly, as if to request patience or silence – and his mouth snapped shut again as he leaned back slightly. It occurred to Merlin that Arthur was far more uncomfortable in this situation than Merlin was, or that he let on.

"Know this also," the lady went on. "By your entrance into this valley, you have earned your chance to draw the sword. But opportunity is not infinite."

"I see," Arthur said. "I've got to be ready and act quickly, or lose my chance?"

"That is not an incorrect statement," she responded. "And it is _your_ chance, only. Your men will not be permitted to enter the lake."

"Understood." Arthur set his jaw in his determination, and Merlin almost smiled, but for the solemnity that lay over them. Arthur's eyes were already flicking to scan what of the lake's surface and shores, he could see without turning his head. "May I ask, how long before I can expect…"

"All in good time," she said, as if she meant every word of the common phrase.

"I am very grateful to you for your guidance, my lady," Arthur said.

She inclined her head – and when she lifted it, she addressed Merlin softly and almost intimately, with the suggestion of a question. "Come with me, for a moment?"

He glanced doubtfully at Arthur, who didn't protest. The water-lady lifted her hand to him, palm up in wordless invitation. And Merlin didn't hesitate to reach forward and take her hand – not as strangers meeting, but as old friends clasping comfortably. She led him slowly further into the lake, step by step, waiting for him to find his footing.

"Your clothes are going to get wet," Arthur called from behind him.

"It's summer. I'll dry." And hopefully quickly, the chill of the water through his trousers to his skin made him shiver and then gasp as each step took him deeper.

When the level had reached his hips, she paused and faced him, the top of her head rising no further than his chin, the gray-blue eyes seeming to study him. Then she tipped her face up and her lips pursed slightly and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he would bend his lips down to hers, in spite of their audience at the shore.

Warmth flooded him. Inside, outside, body and soul, bliss washed him empty. He let his eyes drop shut, and the darkness was absolute.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Honestly, upon first sight of the hidden lake, Percival had anticipated several swim-and-dive expeditions, to acquire the sword. A lot of wading and hoping not to cut their toes when they found it. He had not expected magic.

He'd only just got over the shock of the lake-lady – what was the word? dryad? – appearing to speak privately to Merlin, to call Arthur into the water, when another phenomena caught his attention.

A stone's throw to Arthur's left and about the same distance from the shore as the lord, the water began to swirl, dropping the center of the whirlpool below the surface of the lake. Arthur turned instinctively to the sound and movement, but Percival – whose instincts were roused when the dryad began to lead Merlin to deeper water – spared the disturbance only a glance.

Because the dryad was very close to Merlin, and it looked like she might –

Merlin moved toward her as well, bending his head – and dropped right into the water like he'd inadvertently stepped into a sinkhole. A small splash closed over his head – Percival caught his breath and strode forward, only to meet an invisible barrier of resistance.

He couldn't get to the water.

Merlin didn't reappear. And the dryad was gone.

Arthur didn't notice right away, plowing a determined path through knee-deep water toward a short column of stone or ice rising from the whirlpool, from which the gleaming hilt of a sword thrust upward.

Merlin didn't surface, spluttering and splashing and wiping water from his eyes. The ripples smoothed, and the anxious cousin of panic rose from Percival's belly to grip his heart.

"Arthur!" Leon called urgently.

Percival began searching for the boundaries of whatever invisible barrier kept them from the water. Further down the shoreline, Gwaine was doing the same – with increasingly frantic movements and no luck.

"Go further!" Percival shouted to him, motioning. He shoved his shoulder against the barrier, leaned lower and shoved again, boots sliding in the gravel – there was no give – he slammed his fist into it, drove his fists into it, battering with all his strength. It was like punching one of Merlin's wool-filled mattresses.

Gwaine was no more successful than he, darting down the bank, hands spread to feel the barrier, occasionally pausing to swipe lower, in case there was some sort of break. To Percival's other side, Leon was doing the same, shouting again for Arthur's attention.

Percival added his greatest bellow – along with a fair amount of desperation. "Arthur!"

Still short of the offered sword, Arthur glanced over at them, annoyed, and Percival swallowed a bit of hysteria at the thought of how ridiculous they must look to him.

" _She's taken Merlin!"_

Immediately Arthur spun – took in the placid ripples of the rest of the lake – and began running, surging as best he could toward the place Merlin had last been standing. He struggled only a moment, however, before he impatiently abandoned the effort in favor of diving forward to begin to swim.

Percival's lungs burned with quickened breathing, and each inhalation felt like a betrayal of his master. He stepped unsteadily along, still pushing against the barrier. Twenty paces along, Gwaine had drawn his sword to hack at the invisible wall, but he didn't look to be getting anywhere.

Arthur reached the place where Merlin had disappeared, and ducked down below the surface.

"It's been too long," Leon said in a voice of dreadful calm.

"Shut up," Percival told him roughly. Hope rose to choke him – until Arthur emerged to gasp another breath, and dive down again.

"She said _payment_ , I didn't think she meant someone's _life_ ," Leon added. Percival recognized that the other soldier was speaking from a sense of disbelief and helplessness. "She didn't seem vicious or bloodthirsty, or _dangerous_ , even…"

"She can't have him," Percival said, though he knew his denial didn't make a lick of difference to the situation. "Oh lords, Arthur…"

Only one head surfaced, sodden golden hair slung back from Arthur's face. He gasped three times; Percival could only imagine the burning torment of his lungs denied air –

Oh, Merlin.

And Arthur dove under again.

Percival punched the air-wall and cursed, trying to blink the stinging sensation away from his eyes.

Heartbeats ticked past, slower and heavier.

"Oh, no," Leon said. "Look."

Expecting to see a black-haired body floating face-down, Percival obeyed – but saw only the whirlpool swirling madly the opposite direction, the stone-held sword beginning to sink slowly.

"Arthur!" Leon shouted. "The sword!"

Percival didn't blame him; his job was to make sure his captain had every scrap of possibly-valuable information in every circumstance. Arthur staggered upright, lost his footing with a splash, and glanced their way for an instant, before turning his gaze in the direction Leon pointed.

Then, for one eternal second, Arthur stood motionless to watch the relic retreating by slow inevitable inches, his back half-turned and his expression hidden from them. And at comprehension of the young lord's choice, Percival felt his insides hollow out.

Was Merlin beyond saving, even now.

Was continuing the attempt to locate and rescue and revive – less certain with every second that passed after the boy's disappearance, and there had been a _lot_ of them – worth losing the chance at the sword.

Keep searching – and maybe lose everything anyway?

Or make for the sword and claim it and all it stood for – justice and equality and freedom – in Merlin's name. And with the first movement, abandon hope for the boy himself, accepting the immutable fact of his death.

One man, or a kingdom full of men? And neither was by any means guaranteed…

A terrible choice… What would Arthur decide?

 **A/N: Nothing from the book in this. But, I took inspiration for the dryad from a certain scene in "The Mirror Prince" by Violette Malan (which I do recommend), and the lake-scenes from Heather Dale's song "Lady of the Lake". If you haven't listened to it yet, you** _ **should**_ **. Gorgeous piano, and the** _ **lyrics**_ **…**


	14. The Sword and the Cup

**Chapter 14: The Sword and the Cup**

Merlin _breathed_ , each one slower and deeper than the last, and took pleasure in the stretching sensation inside his lungs. Weariness melted away from his body – soreness from muscles, discomfort from joints, all the little twinges from minor scrapes and bruises.

He felt her next to him, pressed to him, leaning on him in a way that was comfortably intimate.

"Open your eyes," she whispered in his ear.

He obeyed, expecting to see the lake, bordered by shore, ringed by trees, topped by mountains, and the sky overhead.

Instead he saw water stretching away to the horizon, in front of him and on all sides. Sparkling blue, enormous lazy waves. The shrill call of birds in the clear sky high overhead, the smell of salt…

He looked _down_ and gasped at the sheer volume of water beneath them. Currents both subtle and swift tugged at his soul and he sensed all manner of marine life, an entire universe concealed beneath the surface. Slow-moving behemoths, slippery predators, darting schools of a thousand different kinds of brilliantly colored fish. Creatures with shells or arms, creatures half-plant and half-animal. The strange ones of the deepest cracks that defied definition.

She stood beside him, milky skin and flowing blue garment that matched her eyes, and white-gold hair rising to curly points like a natural crown. One arm circled his waist, the other hand lay negligently on the front of his shirt.

"What?" he managed.

"Ocean," she said.

"How?"

He felt her smile in the core of his being. "Magic. Yours is so strong. Unique. That's what makes it possible for me to show you this."

Merlin thought, he could stay here forever. Dive down and mingle and study and watch, one for a hundred years, then the next, then the next, an intertwined web of existence.

She lifted her hand to his cheek and drew him to look at her again, her smile sharing and appreciating his wonder, before she rose to brush her lips against his.

He opened his eyes and the rolling waves of the ocean had changed from liquid blue to harsh brown-yellow-white. Looking down nearer their bare feet, he saw that they stood on _sand_ , stretching as before, from one horizon to the other. He looked at her, skin golden, garment cream, eyes a clear light brown and hair streaked gold-tan.

"Desert," she said.

Again he was aware of how deep the drifts extended below them, the stubborn plants and the vicious beautiful creatures that survived and thrived. The ancient artifacts of long-forgotten civilizations, swallowed, smoothed, erased. Buried and preserved. This would take another lifetime to understand, to learn the vagaries of the wind and whether it was possible to connect and _use_ them to uncover and discover…

"It is," she said. "We can come back and try."

He looked down at lips roughened, dried, reddened by sun and salt, and bent willingly to kiss her again, feeling their magic twine like the gusts of the swirling wind.

This time, when he opened his eyes, he was prepared for a change – but gasped at it anyway.

A forest, ancient and still. The trees were wider at their bases than a small cottage, and stretched high enough to rival mountains. Flocks of birds moved, calling, below their lowest branches. And underfoot, mosses and ferns, beetles and worms and the roots stretching far and deep in the rich earth. He ached to know, to learn, why these things were, and how they worked.

"Balance," she told him. Her skin was creamy-brown, her gown a deep sage-green. Eyes brilliant emerald, hair luxurious earth-red. "Exquisite, infinite balance. Even when it tips, eventually it will right itself."

Understanding was almost within grasp. He was eager for it; he would run if he could catch it and hold it in his hand.

"It's in here," she said, her hand on his chest. "It's already with you. We can unlock it together… Would you like to see more?"

He grinned and cupped her face in his hands, bending to capture her lips. She tasted of freedom, and swayed against him willingly.

It took him a moment to open his eyes again.

And he lost his breath.

They stood at the peak of a mountain whose base he could not see, looking down. The wind whipped round them, chill and strong, and _dozens_ of equally breathtaking peaks punctuated the view spread before them, each capped white with ice and snow. This time when he looked at her, he was not surprised to see her hair and skin white, dress and eyes black.

There were creatures who lived here, too, bravely unconcerned at the narrow ledges and abrupt drops. Remote and tenacious villages of people. He felt the earth itself move in great jagged layers, cracking and swallowing waterfalls of ice and snow.

"You like it," she said, guessing but knowing. "You, of all humans, can appreciate it."

"What is it, though," he said. It was maddening, to feel in his heart that he shouldn't have to ask.

"Eternity," she said, stretching up to brush his lips with another word. "Immortality." She whispered her promise, "I can show you jungles, ice flows and tundras, savannahs and tropical islands…"

Merlin was breathless with the bliss of anticipation. Unaware of having closed his eyes, the next thing he knew he was blinking up at the night sky, velvety blue-black and strewn with stars. The entire sky shifted in his perception – the depth was _immense_. The stars weren't white, they were all colors, patterns – more than stars, there were other worlds out there. He felt his soul expand, and gasped in ecstasy.

Eternity was right. He could just begin to comprehend the complexity and supremacy represented there, welcoming him. _Perfection_.

Merlin bent his knees slightly, as if he would leap from his pinnacle and soar forever into the sky. She braced beside him and he knew that they would go together, the melding of their magic and personalities enhancing the experience exponentially and he couldn't _wait_.

Except… he felt something other than her presence at his side, something warm at the center of his chest. He glanced down to see a palm-size patch glowing on the front of his shirt.

Odd.

"What's that?" He released his hold on her to unlace his shirt – his skin was glowing, slightly left of center.

She answered serenely, "Arthur."

Infinity retreated a bit, as he remembered. Arthur… the quest and the sword… Camelot and the princess.

"There will be balance," she said, moving to face him. Her garment glittered and spangled silver, her skin soft and opalescent. Ebony black hair, and earnest stars in her eyes. "That much is sure."

"I don't understand?"

She smiled. "Close your eyes."

Behind the darkness he saw a bearlike man, broad-shouldered and clad in fur, thick silver-streaked brown hair, bushy beard. Commanding and clever, and a sword hung at his side.

"Bruta," the lady told Merlin. "His wife is ill, too fragile to bear him an heir, though she has often tried, and tries again."

Around the man, images coalesced, as though he strode through a corridor of light stone, passing plinths with vases and sculptures, hanging tapestries. His gaze was fixed resolutely forward, though not quite on Merlin and the lady, as if they were invisible to him. Another man fell in beside him, small-boned and almost delicate in comparison, light-haired and keen-eyed and worried.

"Taliesin," she said. "The greatest sorcerer of his age. And a Seer."

Keeping in step with his sovereign, Taliesin turned to peer anxiously, right at Merlin. At that moment a lady appeared at Bruta's other side, plump and dark-haired, full red lips and deep purple gown.

"That," the lady said, as the Bruta image stopped, turning away from Taliesin toward the female newcomer, "is Blythewin. Beloved of everyone, strong in magic, trusting and generous."

Merlin noticed the lady spoke in present terms. "What happened?"

"She offered comfort, and support. A promise to work tirelessly to effect a solution. He was very grateful… and then very impatient… and then his wife died and he despaired. Again Blythewin offered apology, condolence, comfort – as a friend. Bruta was drunk, and took it as a lover."

"Oh," Merlin said only.

"She could not use magic against him, as her king, her oaths of loyalty bound her to that. And in his shame, he attempted to have her sent away. He intended to spare her feelings – she would have none of it, seeking to have him answer to the law as any man, which didn't happen. She believed she had lost everything – her innocence, her freedom, her friends, her service and usefulness to the kingdom, her _trust_. Determined that such would not happen again, she freed her power by force, greatly disrupting the magic of the land, drawing other sorceresses to follow her leading. By her magic was the might of men broken. And her line has maintained the imbalance of authority, of gender, of magic – thinking to protect the weak and prosper the kingdom."

"And Bruta?" he said. "Came to the lake and –"

She reached up to touch his cheek and turn his head again, and the stone of the palace image shifted to the shore of the lake he'd already seen. A stand of warriors, exuding defeat and exhaustion in the way they waited, circled a prone figure on a pallet covered by blankets. An arm lifted, pointed, commanded – a last weak gesture – and one of the warriors looked at the bared weapon in his hand before flinging it to the center of the water with all his might. Then his body bowed as he buried his face in his hands as if to weep.

"But there will be balance," Merlin said, beginning to understand, and almost as if he wished to comfort the weeping – and long-dead - stranger. Then the glowing circle on his chest throbbed with overwhelming emotion, and he cried out. "What is that?"

"Arthur," she explained again, patiently. "Would you like to see?"

A vast chamber of the same light-colored stone, filled with people. A royal carpet stretched its length, climbed its few stairs, ended at a pair of thrones set back on the dais. At the top of the stairs, the princess stood resplendent, curly hair dressed in flowers around the crown that dipped onto her forehead. Gems fastened around her throat and pendant from her ears, gold-trimmed gown in luminous crimson, the sleeves slit to bare her arms as she lifted a second gold band.

Kneeling before her, a golden-haired man in dark trousers and boots, blood-red brocade tunic over crisp snowy shirt. As the princess lowered the gold band to crown him, he grinned up at her and winked. Her color deepened, and she lifted her chin – but when he rose to face the cheering crowd, she swayed to connect their bodies by touch, smiling, and he shifted his shoulder behind hers in silent support.

"She loves him too," Merlin said wonderingly.

Then cried out again as more images slammed into him. More couples, more strangers, man and woman repeated thousands of times, thousands of faces, but all the same. Turning away. Denying love because it could not be reciprocated equally – and a multitude of children watched and did not understand their pain or their fate.

 _He loves her… she loves him, too._ Each broken and incomplete without the other, kept apart by fear and resentment that spawned onto the next generation.

Even when the balance righted, there would be violence, there would be mockery. The world wasn't perfect, but balance wasn't stasis. Not like two arms of a scale, back and forth, but like a disc upon a spindle, three hundred directions and more of excess or lack, up or down – spinning, tipping, righting.

"Arthur," Merlin said, remembering. "And Camelot." Percival and Gwaine and Leon and Tristan and the princess and more. Balinor – _father_! – and dragons, community and relation…

No, he could not.

Could not dive to the depths or traverse deserts or marvel in the shade of giant trees, challenge mountain winds or fly among the stars.

"I'm sorry," he said to her. "Thank you, but I need to go back."

"Of course you do," she said, and her smile was understanding, if a bit sad. "Even though I hoped you'd stay…" Her fingers were light and cool on the corners of his jaw, the lobes of his ears, the fringe of his hair. "I am sorry, too… you were very welcome."

She touched her forehead to his and he breathed her in, so clear and sweet it made his lungs ache. He tipped his head and sought her lips, threading fingers in her hair and pressing his body closer to her. Even as he felt her fade, and part of him yearned, his choice remained firm.

"Goodbye," she breathed.

Weariness swelled upward through his body, a thousand faults and imperfections of a physical body he had not even noticed til now. His limbs were heavy and slow and clumsy, his head ached, and his throat closed on the loss of infinite and complex perfection that could have been his to absorb in its entirety.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur only hesitated a single second, before turning his back on the sword to dive under the lake surface again.

Percival held his breath also. He was aware that Leon beside him was watching the sword sink slowly down, though he doubted that visually marking the spot would give them a second chance at retrieval later. Gwaine had dropped his sword and was slumped bodily against the barrier. Percival didn't dare even voice his hope - that if the sword had not been claimed, then Merlin as whatever sort of price the lady charged, might be returned to them.

Leon heaved a sigh and stepped back, one hand still flattened on the barrier, and Percival spared a single glance to see concentric rings smoothing away on the surface where the sword's hilt had been re-submerged.

And Arthur surged from the lake, his back to them, half-falling into the waist-high water. Percival glimpsed a smudge of black near his shoulder – and his heart rose into his throat when Arthur righted himself, twisted, and began to stagger backwards toward shore. Both of his arms were wrapped around another's body – whose arms dangled lifelessly to either side of the young lord.

Gwaine alerted, and Percival shoved against the barrier anew. Leon shouted, "Is he breathing?"

Percival didn't see how it was possible, not after so long, but…

Arthur was grim, pale and dark-eyed, and it was a struggle for him to get to the shore, dragging Merlin behind him with his arms hooked under the younger man's. Slow steps, missed footing, lost grip. He fell half a dozen times, and when his bare feet hit the damp sand of the shore, the barrier disappeared.

Still pushing against its invisibility, Percival nearly sprawled headlong, but caught himself and rushed forward to help. Arthur didn't let go of Merlin, even when his legs gave out and he thumped down ignominiously on rear and back; Percival lifted Merlin's legs to bring him all the way out of the water. Soaked and breathing hard, Arthur hovered protectively over their youngest, searching his neck for evidence of heart-beat, twice shifting his fingers. Percival snatched up one arm to do the same at Merlin's wrist.

Gwaine slid into Merlin's legs panting from his sprint. "Is he alive? Is he still alive?"

Leon bent over Arthur, one hand on his captain's shoulder. "Tip him sideways," Leon said. "If there's water in his lungs, maybe it will –"

"I found a pulse," Arthur announced, even as Percival convinced himself that the tiny flicker against his fingers in Merlin's wrist was _not_ wishful thinking.

"He's breathing," Gwaine said, right on the heels of Arthur's claim.

And Merlin was. Very slowly, and very shallowly, but without spluttering or choking or gagging. He moaned, and Percival sagged from crouching to sitting, in his relief, against Merlin's back, incredulous at the feel of muscles expanding and contracting in his boy-master's breathing. Gwaine huffed a rather emotional chuckle, and Leon sighed, clapping the hand that rested on Arthur's shoulder, as Merlin opened his eyes.

"It's okay, you're safe," Leon said, but Percival doubted Merlin even heard him.

Wet lashes starred the brilliant gold of magic – only Arthur didn't startle at all – flickering and fading back to blue. Merlin focused right on Arthur, who dropped off his elbow to his shoulder, sinking to his side to face the younger man on the ground.

"It was… so… beautiful," Merlin whispered hoarsely. Then his body curled slightly, hugging his arms to his chest, and he began to weep – not with harsh desperation, as he'd mourned Gaius, the first day Percival had known him. This was a helplessly exhausted sort of grief, and inexplicable _loss_.

Percival glanced down to meet Gwaine's eyes, brows raised, and read his thought - an odd reaction to nearly drowning, wasn't it?

Arthur shuffled closer to Merlin, one arm curving over his shoulder, his cheek tucked to sodden black hair, and just held their young friend.

Leon seated himself silently. Percival's trouser leg began to soak lake-water from Merlin's clothing, as the last of the day's sunlight faded from the peaks around them, but he didn't move. Tristan wouldn't worry til mid-afternoon tomorrow – a full day, Arthur had instructed him before they edged behind the waterfall. Perhaps Arthur would think to make some second attempt for the sword, or give up entirely – then it would be either, go back to Camelot empty-handed, or decide upon some other prize for his princess.

Whether or not Merlin was capable of arranging camp as they'd expected him to, as he was used to doing, or whether they'd make do sleeping on the ground, Percival thought he'd have to be told what had happened during his time underwater – maybe he'd have something to tell them, about his time underwater? Perhaps in a while they'd all have stomach for the rations Leon had carried.

But for the moment, the three of them simply surrounded their two leaders, soaked through and completely worn, to offer what comfort and recovery might be found in simple companionship.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin lay on his back on the sparse padding of grass, hands crossed under his head, looking up at the stars as they disappeared one by one toward morning. Around him he heard the slow heavy breathing of his sleeping companions – Gwaine snoring lightly on Percival's other side – but he could not sleep.

His soul was not quiet, and _thinking_ made his eyes sting and his throat feel thick. All was not right with the world.

He remembered the delight of brilliance in the magic the lady of the lake had showed him, how wide was the world, how deep was the sky, how alive were the throbbing stars – and _this_ , lying back and gazing, that he used to take comfort from and enjoyment in, was flat and stale. Would it always be so? Or would he forget? Neither possibility was one that soothed his feeling.

And, Arthur did not have the sword.

Merlin had not asked for details and no one had seemed interested in telling the tale, start to finish. Arthur himself had been sternly silent, avoiding even brief eye contact with all of them. And Merlin could not help wondering, whether it was his fault. The collective mood was not excited anticipation, but a finality of disappointment – he guessed that maybe the sword _had_ appeared, and Arthur had been too busy dredging the lakebed for Merlin's body, to try for it.

It didn't make sense, to him, and frustration surged so strongly through his chest that he sat straight up. He had questions, still, of _payment_ and _worth_ – and it occurred to him, he might try to ask someone who knew.

Earlier, he'd barely made it to his feet to stagger a few paces to rest on the grass, eat a few bites, and fall into a fitful sleep that didn't last. His clothing was dry now, but no one had bothered about his boots; he left them now to make a quiet, careful way to the water's edge.

"Hello?" he called softly, mindful of his sleeping companions and the way sound seemed to carry over water. "My lady?"

Somewhere toward the far side, a bird let out a mournful cry. Crickets chirped all around; frogs conversed hoarsely in a stand of reeds. But though the lake retained the sense of sentience he'd felt on their arrival, there was no anticipation, no waiting. There was no ripple of water, no lady rising to meet and speak with him.

He took a few steps into the water – quite a bit colder, for the night's length – and his ears pricked expectantly… But there was no one. He realized he didn't even know her name. If in fact such as her had a name.

"Merlin?"

He jumped at the sound of the voice behind him, almost falling right back in the ankle-deep water - which would awaken the others with the noise and their worry for him, almost certainly; he caught his balance with relief.

But it was only Arthur, a dim outline and a familiar voice. "Are you all right?"

Merlin understood the cautious concern he heard. He was aware that his reaction to being pulled from the water was – unusual. And he hadn't wanted to tell his experience, start to finish, any more than the others had asked for those details.

"I'm all right," he told Arthur. It was near enough the truth, and he wasn't about to throw himself into the water in trying to return to what he'd glimpsed, even if it tightened his throat to think about. "You don't have to worry about me. I was just going to… ask a question." He gestured out to the lake, and maybe Arthur caught the motion in the faintly-lifting dark, because he grunted in comprehension. Merlin added, "I guess I should say thank you?"

"You haven't yet," Arthur said, lightly sarcastic, and it served to relax Merlin a bit. That meant, if Arthur was still upset about the day's events and conflicted in his thoughts and plans, those feelings weren't directed at Merlin.

"Perhaps I'll put it off for a bit, then," he commented in the same jesting tone. Waited for the space of two breaths, and then said, more sincerely, "Thank you."

Arthur's clothing whispered as though he'd shrugged. "I wasn't going to let you drown, if I could help it."

And he'd have done the same for any of them, Merlin knew. But it had been _him_. "I'm really sorry, Arthur."

"For what?" Arthur said, surprised – and then immediately answered his own question, "Merlin, it was _not_ your fault." As he spoke he turned and began to saunter along the shore. "If she comes back to _talk_ to you, I have a few questions of my own."

He sounded so grim, Merlin took three splashing steps to join him, and Arthur seemed to accept his companionship as an invitation to unburden himself, at least verbally.

"How was, abandoning you to death for my chance to draw the sword, proving my worth?" Arthur went on, and Merlin heard the source of the frustration he felt, himself. "Unless it was about, how a leader must focus on the welfare of the group and the mission's goals, over any individual, I don't understand. She said _payment_ , but there's no way any sword, even a legendary symbol and a rallying point, is worth someone's life. I wasn't going to _sell_ you, for it."

"It wasn't really like that," Merlin tried to explain, unsettled by Arthur's choice of words reminding him of his own close brush with the auction block, before they'd left Camelot. "I wasn't _dying_ , I was… It was like, I had been living all my life in a box, dark and small and alone, and she opened the door to let me out into the world. I _wanted_ to go. Honestly, Arthur, all that magic and knowledge – I didn't have one thought for any of you, or Camelot, or even my own father – just then, it made sense for me to go. If she'd explained what she was going to offer beforehand, I'm sure we would have said no, but when she showed me… I didn't even hesitate."

Arthur was silent for several paces. Then he stopped. "So if I had gone for the sword, you would have been fine."

"Essentially?" Merlin said. And then, remembering what had stopped his spirit from leaping and soaring into the stars, he said, "I wonder…"

"What?"

"You chose me, instead of the sword," he ventured. "Maybe your choice… was what made me think of you. And the quest, everyone and everything… And once I did, it seemed the best thing by far for me to do, to come back. I had to. It would have been unthinkable to ignore you… calling me."

Arthur snorted, but it was a wry, fond sound. "Because I chose you, you chose me?" he said, his tone inclined to sarcasm once again. "Well, maybe you are the prize and my chance at the sword was my payment, but I can't exactly gift you to Guinevere as a token of my esteem, or lift you up to show the crowd, the time for change is now."

Merlin said, with mock disappointment, "No?"

"No."

"We'll figure something out," Merlin said. "It's almost morning – I'm sure the others might have ideas – you said the princess might be open-minded about changing laws anyway, right?"

"I did think, the _fact_ of you meant, fulfillment of prophecy was at hand," Arthur said. "I suppose I was wrong. Impatient, maybe, or –"

Merlin bit his tongue on a teasing agreement, and several other words he could apply to his companion. Now, he felt, was not the time for that. "Or maybe the actual sword being reclaimed, isn't necessary," Merlin proposed encouragingly. "Maybe after the princess becomes queen, we can come back and –"

A sudden sensation of magic, fast and sharp as an arrow, flashed through him, blindly from beside and behind. He gasped and stumbled, his head turning on its own so he couldn't look down to regain his footing.

"Merlin," Arthur said, grabbing his elbow. "What was –"

He felt his friend stiffen in shock; Arthur saw it, too. A slender length of stone or ice rising from the lake, quite close to their shore, where a single moment ago, there had been nothing but calm open water.

It was shaped like an arm, hand and sleeve and clearly feminine, twice life-size and glowing like moonlight. And rising from the hand's grasp, the hilt and base half of a sword - the sword he'd seen at Bruta's side in the vision, he was certain – the point seemingly buried in the folds of the carved sleeve.

Arthur began uncertainly, "Is that –"

"Yeah, it is." Merlin's heart was pounding, but it felt right to stand still and drink the sight in. It felt like an echo of the perfection and design he'd seen in the lady's magic.

"Do you think I should…" Even more doubt was audible in Arthur's tone, and Merlin didn't understand it.

"Yes," he said. " _Yes_."

Arthur had put his boots on, Merlin knew that by the way the lord walked careless of his step on the gravelly shore as Merlin in bare feet, was not. But he moved right into the water as if he'd forgotten them and his trousers, wading slowly to the sculpted female arm, the hilt rising chest-high on him. He reached – and hesitated, as if expecting it to be a mistake, and disappear. Or perhaps as if afraid that no amount of pulling would release the king's sword to his hand.

Behind him, Merlin heard Percival softly echo Balinor's oath. "By the _Lady_."

Arthur's hand settled onto the hilt, his fingers wrapped it. For a moment he waited again, hesitating to _try_ – and without warning, the stone or ice crumbled away from the sword, dissolving or melting back into the lake. Leaving the sword in Arthur's hand.

Movement whispered to either side of Merlin, as Leon, Percival, and Gwaine – silent for once – joined him. He wondered briefly what had woken and brought them, how long they'd been standing there – but figured, it didn't matter. Long enough.

In its faint glow, the look Arthur turned on Merlin was disbelief. And Merlin almost laughed aloud at him, so delighted and _sure_ did he feel in comparison. The vision of Guinevere setting the crown on Arthur's head, and Arthur rising to join and support her reign, as she supported his…

 _Yes, Arthur. Yes._

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

For two days, Gwen endured her confinement alone. Her meals were delivered by shy kitchen girls, tongue-tied presumably by the presence of interchangeable guards at her door, also muscular and silent and honor-bound, Gwen guessed, to report any attempts at persuasion or bribery.

All of her duties had been taken away, and Gwen fretted a bit over details that other clerks or officers wouldn't know, before realizing they could, of course, ask her personal secretaries. Then she fretted over her personal secretaries, whether they'd been interrogated because of the treasonous ideology of their employer – and what had become of Sefa, then.

Books helped a bit. But her thoughts were never distracted for long.

What was she to do? Because doing nothing was still a choice, wasn't it, and not one she was certain she wanted to make.

Doing nothing was acquiescence. Accepting the inevitable and imminent presence of a male in her chambers – and most likely he'd simply remain in residence along with her, until her body gave good evidence that she'd conceived. Inside her room, she believed that this unknown male would prove obedient rather than not, the actual coupling at her decision and within her control – as long as it happened. Repeated denial would probably be reported – and then the coupling would probably not be so voluntary.

She cringed at these thoughts. Absolute resistance to commanded pregnancy would not benefit her much at all. But even if she coupled with this male often enough to placate her mother, sooner or later she'd catch his child. Then, nine months to see if it was a daughter or a son – if a son, Gwen supposed he'd draw scant breath before the kingdom was informed, he'd not survived his birth. Then the whole process would begin again.

If a girl, it was likely the kingdom would be notified, giving birth to the infant heir was the last thing _she'd_ done. Death in childbirth for either mother or child wasn't unheard of, it would be a simple explanation and everyone would mourn.

It seemed to her, that option would only prolong and delay the inevitable, aside from giving Nimueh exactly what she wanted. The only advantage to Gwen would be buying time for some actual strategy – as yet undetermined – but the disadvantage was, she didn't have the time. Not if she was going to try to warn Arthur of the Twins' ambush.

Gwen settled by the window, staring blindly out as the lowering sun spread the shadow of the palace over the land.

If she didn't stay, she'd have to leave. She'd need a plan to actually get out of Camelot without being stopped and returned to the palace – but then what? Where would she go?

She could remain within her mother's realm. Hiding, trying to raise support or resistance – she could connect with Arthur's party and return with him to Dubois, but could she ask Lady Ygraine to betray her oaths, her queen, her cousin? even just to shelter her and lie… But Nimueh was quite capable of naming another heir and in that case Gwen would be watching over her shoulder all her life for someone pre-empting a coup by assassinating her. And then, nothing would be done about the laws of slavery and citizenship…

Or, she could leave Camelot's borders. Anonymously, to live a quiet life in renunciation of any sort of social power - or declare herself to a neighboring monarch. In that case, she'd have to hope for an alliance, rather than being handed back to her mother for some reward, and what if she were required to seal the alliance with a marriage? It occurred to her, that an arrival at a foreign court in company with Camelot's sole male citizen, and already married to Lord Arthur, would put her in a much better bargaining position… She wasn't sure she wanted that, though, solely for the sake of expediency and strength – and what would be Lady Ygraine's reaction to that tactic, either.

So deep was she in wrestling with her thoughts, she nearly missed the knock on her door, across the room. Gwen looked up in surprise. It was not late enough for dinner yet, though as she hadn't bothered with lighting candles or lamps, the room was twilight-dim.

It took her a moment to recognize the person who entered, before the door was closed and barred from the outside, again. Not a kitchen girl in service-uniform black dress, but a man, with a drawstring bag slung over one shoulder. He stood a moment, as if disconcerted, then came toward her, and she knew him.

"Lancelot," she said, feeling both surprise and relief. And amusement and humiliation. Of course Nimueh would choose Lord Lancelot and send him to impregnate her. Better, and yet somehow worse, than some random oblivious stranger.

Gwen bent her forehead down to her knee and let the tears come, sobbing even as she laughed at herself and what her life had come to.

"Highness?" he said. Probably completely unsettled by her reaction; he sounded it. But he also came closer – kneeling, by the direction of his voice. "What happened? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"What happened," she repeated, sniffling into her skirt and feeling a sort of careless abandon of correct behavior, because really, how could things get any worse? "I found out my mother is a murderer. I found out my queen pays agents to break her own laws in the most horrible ways. And instead of being able to do anything about it, I'm locked in my room til I produce an heir that can be trained after my death to commit the same heinous crimes in the name of the crown and get away with it, too."

As she spoke, Gwen's strength of feeling straightened her spine; she lifted her head and watched his eyebrows rise at her revelation. She'd never seen his expression shift by so much, before.

"Why," she added, "what did they tell you?"

"That there were concerns about your health, but it had been determined your duty to the line of succession could still be performed, though time is critical and conception should occur as soon as possible."

"My health?" she said blankly.

He answered immediately and neutrally. "Mental."

She gaped at him. Not only at the absurd and outright lie… but that he had told her at all. It seemed more than just, a trained response to answer any question posed by a female honestly and completely. If he believed them, would he have told her that? Or maybe, he thought it didn't matter.

"You don't believe that," she said. "Do you believe that?"

He studied her and said nothing. Because, she realized, to him she was still the one in control of the situation.

"Come and sit," she said, indicating the opposite end of the window-seat. "We need to talk." As he obeyed without hesitation, she wiped her face with her hand and her hand on her skirt, composing herself.

"Did Lord Arthur return?" he asked, mimicking her pose with one foot on the floor and the opposite knee bent on the seat between them. "Or was I chosen in spite of the quest?" He shrugged off the drawstring bag; she paid it little mind. Trinkets were of little value to her, now.

"Arthur hasn't returned yet," she said, remembering that the two had formed at least a casual respect, between them. She hoped that Lancelot's calm obedience didn't preclude intelligence and some sort of moral standard apart from considerations of gender. _I guess we'll see_. "Are you aware of the Twins' feud with his family?" If he hadn't been, he accepted the news unquestioningly. "In addition to that, Morgana and Morgause have been carrying out the queen's private campaign against young boys with the potential to win citizenship in the arena. Accusations of murder haven't been proven, but they're definitely after Merlin – and Arthur hired him to accompany his party on his quest."

Lancelot inhaled, and turned his gaze out the window, his brown eyes thoughtful. "Arthur chose something more dangerous, then," he guessed quietly, and gave a nod as if conceding victory to an opponent – she'd seen him do it before, after a lost horseback race. It was an odd gesture, since he'd just been ushered in here to claim _his_ prize; Gwen let out a breath in relief that Lancelot had not taken offense at Arthur's move. "I suppose this might be irrelevant, then, but I did intend to give it to you, anyway…"

He inclined his head in a seated bow, handing her the tightened strings of the bag he'd carried in. Gwen took a deep breath and let it out, feeling a bit selfish; she'd forgotten what hardships he might have faced, in her worry for Arthur's safe return – and there was nothing they could do about that for the moment, anyway. She pulled the bag open and lifted out a chalice – it needed better lighting to examine it, but there was engraving around the mouth, and what felt like gems set around the base.

"Thank you," she told him, a bit perfunctorily. "This is gorgeous – where did you go?"

"It was an old story I remembered hearing as a child," he told her. "My mother would bring my sisters to visit our neighbor's estate, and my neighbor would tell of this goblet. She claimed to be descended from a handmaiden to one of the ancient queens, and this the royal cup. What made it special, she told my sisters – and I heard from my corner of the room – was that it had been a gift to the queen from her husband."

"Her husband?" Gwen repeated, squinting at the goblet. "No queen has married since…" Since before Blythewin. Since Bruta's wife.

Gwen rose and crossed the room to her desk. There was a candle there; it took her three tries to light it with the striker, and she lit two others before she set the cup in her hand, down on the desk to study.

Elegant and intricate etching around a slightly-flared rim. Slender stem with a stylized knob in the center for grip, thick base set with round rubies, smooth rather than faceted.

"I don't know," Lancelot admitted gently, rising to follow her in attendance. "She brought this out to show once, and I remembered thinking it was indeed a cup for a queen. When I explained the quest you'd set, my neighbor agreed that it should be given to you."

Gwen blinked tears. "It is a queen's cup," she said, reaching for the large old book that lay at the corner of her desk in spite of her expectation that it would vanish, one of these days, back to the library in its _proper place_ , as Arthur had said. "There's a drawing of it, here."

Not exactly, it was only a sketch of a banquet where Bruta and Blyethewin drank together as loyal friends – a memory of what had been, an illustration of what Taliesin promised would be, again. The queen was a secondary character, though the cup she raised had detail enough for identification. Gwen couldn't help but notice that Bruta had attended the event _armed_ , as though he didn't quite trust…

"So it is the queen's cup," Lancelot breathed. "And a gift from her husband. That's a history book? It isn't Blythewin's, is it."

"Taliesin," she said. "Court bard to Bruta, and then Blythewin. You've never read…"

He shook his head once, slowly. Regretfully? No, of course he wouldn't be allowed this reading. She turned the pages, found the passages that had imprinted on her memory, and read them aloud.

" _As water seeks its level, so the world will balance again, turning as seasons from light to dark and death to life. One man to match one woman as equals and opposites, is inevitable as change is inevitable and each will have a part to play – royal and slave, healer and killer, wild and tame, cup and sword. I have seen him. I have seen her. I have seen them, and it will one day come to pass…"_

"Do you mean," he said slowly, "no more slavery?"

"No more killing for citizenship rights," she added.

Of course it would be far more complicated than that, but those two issues were the essence of what she had come to believe, needed to change. How could Camelot flourish, if what wasn't right, was allowed and encouraged – and defended? But prophecy seemed a nebulous thing, when someone's life might be in danger; she shook herself to more practical and pressing considerations.

"Aside from the question of whether I will bear an heir sooner or later, or whether you will be its sire –" how odd it suddenly seemed, that they could discuss such an intimate topic dispassionately, both of them – "it is a sure thing that the Twins plan to intercept Arthur's party. Morgana spoke to me of returning to Camelot with only Merlin, and him as a slave. I would not see that happen, if there is anything in my power to prevent it, whatever else may come afterwards."

He lifted his head, gazing distantly across the room and while she knew he was thinking, she could not tell what his thoughts might be.

"I want to escape," she added in a low voice, and then he looked at her.

There was intelligence there, though of an unperturbed kind. He was aware that she was testing his reaction, whether he'd keep her by force or betrayal, whether he'd follow his orders by forcibly bedding his princess. He was aware she was asking him to choose sides and declare loyalties.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked.

"I keep thinking of a rope out the window," she admitted, "but if you'd be willing to subdue that slave at the door –"

"There's still the rest of the palace to get through," he reminded her, a calm but clear dismissal of the idea.

"Well, I don't know," she retorted. "If you have any ideas, let's –" A light double-knock sounded on the door, before it opened to admit a kitchen girl with a loaded dinner tray. Sensitive to the fact of their plotting, Gwen swallowed her words – and almost choked as she realized the identity of the attendant. " _Sefa_?"

"I'm sorry, my lady – I've been demoted, and this is the first chance I've gotten to come…" The girl came toward them to set the tray on the table.

Gwen had an idea. "Sefa, I'm going to need your help."

The younger girl nodded, characteristically timid, but also determined. "Anything, my lady."

"All right," Gwen said, drawing herself up to her full height – still shorter than either Lancelot or the maid. "This is what we're going to do…"

 **A/N: Nothing from the book. This is all me. Or, well – you know what I mean.**

 **Also, I give notice that the month of July is my vacation month. Extended family, in-laws, lots of kids and beach time and traveling and no computer, the works. Starting tomorrow, so after this chapter, I can try to post another in about two weeks, and then one more before August (** _ **try**_ **being the key word) – and my responses to your reviews will be necessarily delayed – sorry! But we're close to the ending, anyway, and does this one count as a cliffie? I don't think so…**

catherine: thanks for reviewing! CaraLee934 steered me to Heather Dale originally, but I love all of it. I really appreciate how it's possible to mentally slot 'our' characters into the songs, but there's still a bit of difference and distance. A mix of legend and our specific "Merlin". I do like "Trial of Sir Lancelot" (even though to me, truly loving her would mean _not_ putting her in a position to betray her husband/king), but "Lady of the Lake" is my favorite. That piano, y'know.

kirsten: you're right about the nymph terminology – I thought I got it right, but I didn't double-check. On second thought, I decided to leave it, Percival probably isn't sure of the difference either. I may revisit that later, though, if I remember…


	15. Concerning Love and Magic

**Chapter 15: Concerning Love and Magic**

A question occurred to Gwen, slowly realized as she and Lancelot and Sefa discussed and examined and detailed their plan, the timing and the best options and the chance for success.

She didn't ask it then, because really it was fairly trivial, considering what they were facing now.

Half the problem was, there was no time to plan properly. No time for Sefa to sound out other sympathizers or organize supplies and mounts or even to navigate an escape route based upon the projected vacancies of certain corridors or rooms or stairways.

According to Sefa's sister, the Twins had already left the city with an unknown number of slaves attending. Arthur's party could return at any time – and conversely, they could not guess when Sefa might be appointed or even allowed, to perform the service that brought her to Gwen's chamber that evening. And even knowing that Arthur was good with a sword and his four soldiers highly capable and Merlin himself not defenseless, Gwen didn't think she was going to be able to shrug and hope, to focus on her own safety and successful escape.

"Are you sure, my lady?" Sefa said, for maybe the fifth time. Gwen rolled her eyes – but at least Lancelot was not right beside them, here in her inner chamber, to repeat the question with one wordless glance.

"It has to be like this, Sefa, trust me," Gwen said. "It'll be uncomfortable – and embarrassing, probably, I am sorry – but at least it isn't cold. And as nice as it would be for us to have more time to get away, it likely won't be very long til you're discovered and freed."

"No, I'm not worried about _this_ ," Sefa said from the bedroom chair behind Gwen. "What will they do if they catch you?"

"We'll just have to make sure they don't," Gwen said, more decisively than she felt. Because she didn't have an objective answer for that question – didn't want one, didn't want to suffer the contemplation necessary to arrive at one. For the sake of her own courage, embarking on this course to begin with.

As Sefa kept a dubious and intimidated silence, Gwen checked the mirror one last time. The long black servant's skirt covered trousers and boots alike, as well as the knife at her hip. The white blouse sufficiently hardy and only a bit long on Gwen; with a belt over it, all she needed. That was the work of a handful of moments – what had taken longer was her hair. Her own black curls were knotted and hidden under a scarf, but it was Sefa's contribution that Gwen hoped would prove their success. The younger woman had conjured _hair_ , blonde-brown and wavy, that would show under the scarf where her own dark hair was hidden, in the back and around her face – and if she could keep anyone from getting a close look at _that_ , she was hopeful to walk out, unrecognizable.

"What do you think?" Gwen said, turning and coming to the chair. "Thank you again, I hope you don't get in too much trouble."

Sefa, dressed only in her shift, clutched the arms of the comfortable bedside chair while Gwen used soft lengths of cloth torn from her bed-sheet to tie her former junior secretary into it.

"Good luck, my lady," Sefa said, and nodded once as Gwen lifted the last strip of cloth to form a gag.

Firming her resolve, Gwen strode back out to the main chamber, where Lancelot had been repacking the meal to take with them. He glanced up from tying the bundle shut at the end of the table – glanced again, in surprise. Gwen hoped that meant, her disguise was effective.

As a last act, she moved the queen's goblet to a side table where it would probably be overlooked as another meaningless bit of decoration. She doubted the queen was familiar enough with Taliesin's history to recognize it for what it was, and anonymity would protect it, if she was unable to return…

And, she couldn't think about that right now.

"Ready," she said to Lancelot, who nodded. She picked up the tray; he positioned himself beside the door.

Hand on the latch, she only hesitated a moment. If, if, if – they'd already talked over a dozen contingencies. Only one way to find out.

She yanked the door open. And met the guard's eyes deliberately.

The slave's glance was casual and surreptitious, interest only to break the boredom – but awareness sparked and his eyes widened, and Gwen turned hurriedly away. No one else in the corridor; that was good.

"Excuse me," the guard-slave said, behind her, as she rounded the lintel of the door to head down the hallway away from him. "Ma'am – I apologize – turn around, please."

She didn't. She heard him take two steps – then Lancelot grabbed him. Grunt and scuffle; Gwen checked again the opposite way down the corridor, and returned to her doorway to see Lancelot wrestle the guard into unconsciousness, and lower him to the rug on her chamber floor.

"Hurry up," she told him, spinning in the open doorway to keep a lookout while Lancelot traded his tunic of deep dusty-orange for the guard's blue-uniform garment. All they didn't need was for someone to move into sight – understand what was wrong – sound the alarm…

"My lady," Lancelot said to indicate his readiness, still buckling the appropriated sword-belt at his waist.

Gwen stepped into the corridor once again as he picked up his drawstring bag, now containing their wrapped evening meal, and closed the door of her quarters behind them. No turning back now. She lifted her chin and determined each step, away from her former life – until she _realized_ , turning the corner and beginning to encounter others. Then, she tucked her chin down and hunched her shoulders slightly, and tried to focus on the tray in her hands, the reassuring presence of Lancelot behind her. Her heart thumped unsteadily, she balanced the dishes only awkwardly, and every moment expected a shouted challenge –

But it worked.

It probably helped that she wasn't very tall; if she kept her head bowed no one could easily look her in the face. And of course no one expected a blonde princess, did they? Another thing in her favor – the story of her illness was probably the official version. No one who recognized her would immediately assume her a fugitive to be apprehended. If they were stopped, she hoped she could still excuse herself long enough to –

They took the turn toward the stables, and away from the kitchen, and she slid the tray onto the first flat surface that would accommodate it, feeling slightly more vulnerable without it and the obvious purpose it gave her to answer curious glances. Still, no one addressed her beyond a courteous and impersonal, "Good evening."

Good luck was holding.

And then they were in the open air. In a moment of relative privacy, he stood sentinel while Gwen quickly unfastened the servants' skirt and stepped out of it, leaving it stuffed in a corner niche, then led the guard-clad Lancelot to the stables, where the female workers wore trousers as a matter of course.

"Block Four?" she said to Lancelot, to be sure. Her feet wanted to run, but she held her pace to avoid attention.

"Yes, m- ma'am," he said, catching his instinctive _my lady_ that might give them away if overheard.

There were more people here – but busier, and lower-ranked. They saw her and Lancelot, but hurried right on by and forgot again. Once when she glimpsed one of the stable-masters, she ducked down an immediate turn through another block of stalls to avoid the woman entirely – and no one the wiser.

"Here," Lancelot said finally. "Eleven through thirteen."

Saddles and tack hung on the wall outside the stalls, for those housing guest animals, like the ones Lancelot and his escort had brought from his mother's estate. That way, they stole nothing and alerted no one, and Lancelot at least would have a familiar mount if it came to rough and fast riding.

"Yours is –" she said.

"Eleven." He headed for that stall, lifting the saddle and shouldering the latch to open the half-gate. "Thirteen's probably best for you, my – ah, ma'am."

She would order him to call her _Gwen_ , later. Because for sure she would be disinherited the moment Nimueh discovered her escape.

Mostly when she rode, the horses were prepared for her. But one good thing she had learned from her mother, was how to do for herself, if need be. She was clumsy and she was slow, but she knew what went where, and needed Lancelot's help with adjusting the stirrups, only.

How long had it been, since they stepped outside her room? Did anyone know yet? Was anyone searching? Had anyone alerted the gate-officers?

They risked mingling with the last exercise strings, returning for the evening in the deepening dusk – more curious glances, as it was an odd time to set out – but still no questions. No one cared enough to interrupt their own routines, and the slaves of course assisting the hardest chores would never think to involve themselves in a woman's business.

Lancelot discarded the guard's tunic inside the last stall of the last block, and they mounted to trot officiously through the gate – just in time. The last few people – slave or citizen, mounted or afoot – headed either for the palace complex, the descending town, or a proper home outside the city walls. She and Lancelot hid in the middle of this impatient eddying of humanity and exited Camelot, overlooked.

"Is there a moon tonight?" Gwen said, twisting in her saddle to check. The tight feeling in her chest began to ease toward triumphant exhilaration, that would hopefully last awhile longer before any worse emotion took its place at the realization of the changes in her life this week, and what they meant for the future.

"It'll be full in three days' time," Lancelot answered. "Decent light til midnight. Do you want to eat?"

"I want to keep going," she decided, mindful of the people dispersing away from the road, and those who remained within possible earshot, though intent on their own business. "Save the food for tomorrow. We don't exactly have the supplies for a campsite anyway, and it's probably best to put some distance between us and the city now while we can." He murmured something agreeable, and she added, "Please ride up here? It makes me nervous to hear you behind me while I'm listening for anyone else – coming."

Lancelot obeyed as he always did, with alacrity and without offense; she felt badly for him and couldn't quite define why, even to herself.

"Thank you for helping me," she said. "I think we made it. I hope we made it." And if they had, it was because of him, because he'd unexpectedly chosen to help her, rather than the guard that represented the full weight of royal authority.

"Time will tell," he said mildly. There were far fewer people now, and none that could overhear; she relaxed into the assurance of conversational privacy.

"I've gotten you in trouble with your mother," she ventured, a statement and a question.

"She has my sisters," Lancelot said, and though she couldn't see him perfectly anymore in the dim light, he sounded unruffled. "They've always been loyal. Whether I disappoint them or not… will probably depend on the outcome of… whatever it is that we're doing."

Gwen decided, she'd wait to decide what to do next, until she could talk to Arthur about her options, too.

"Have you been riding all day?" she commented then. "I'm sorry; I've got you riding several more hours tonight." And, as he began to demur, she remembered the question that had tickled her curiosity through the more intense escape-planning. "You said your neighbor had that cup, as a hereditary treasure?"

"For generations, apparently," he agreed.

"And she just – let you have it, to give to the princess?" Gwen said, ignoring the little pang that accompanied the whisper, she wasn't the princess anymore.

"In the end," he said, after a pause, and with a rising inflection that admitted some doubt.

"Your estate… can be reached in a single hard day's ride," she said. "Yes? Is your neighbor much further?"

"Only a few hours."

She could only see the outlines of his face, guess nothing at thought by expression or attitude – then again, he'd never been as complex as Arthur, always perfectly content to believe in her absolute right to question and command. She'd considered him impossible to offend, because of that; she wondered if that would change, after tonight. She decided, if she wasn't the princess anymore, she wouldn't worry about acting with royal propriety anymore, either.

"Did you meet with difficulties on the road, or in negotiations?" she said. "Because otherwise, you might have returned…" The day after she'd seen Morgana. "Several days ago?"

"Oh, I… received a slight injury on my journey there." He sounded embarrassed. "Nothing too serious, some bruising and a bit of an unavoidable limp."

"You're all right now, though?" she asked. She hadn't noticed him favoring either leg at all.

"Yes thank you, my neighbor's grand-niece took… very good care of me. I think perhaps she might have over-reacted a bit – I met her on the road, and the hound that guarded her walk took exception to… that meeting. I think she felt responsible, so she wanted to be sure I was cared for properly. The swelling was slight, but… she was concerned."

A sudden suspicion struck Gwen as he spoke, and she recalled the odd detachment with which they'd both spoken of the intercourse expected of them. She hummed a bit, and said, "This grand-niece was young?"

"A citizen," he said immediately, almost defensively. "Just this year; she's been at the estate since the trials. Recovering, herself. She's fine, though sometimes her spirits are low when the memories bother her, and when she feels confused she likes to talk."

And Lancelot, Gwen suspected, made for a good listener. Quiet and calm – and so easy to look at – she could see a young citizen losing herself in those dark eyes. She remembered what a wreck she'd felt, herself, in the weeks and months following citizenship, and understood why a young woman still recovering herself would want to look after a young male also injured. She said dryly, "Pretty?"

"She is very beautiful. Hair like moonlight on a waterfall, eyes like the summer sky –"

"Lancelot," Gwen said, half-laughing. "Have you fallen in love?" When he didn't immediately answer, she reconsidered her teasing tone. "My lord, I hope I can regard you as a friend?"

"Of course, Your Highness." He sounded a bit startled, she thought, but whether that was over her question of friendship, or love, she wasn't sure.

"Then I hope you can think of me as one, also," she said. "It can be argued that you outrank me, after tonight; if I am to be charged with disobedience to the crown as treason."

Silence again, as the horses moseyed on, the road vacant now and dimmer, but the rising moonlight enough to navigate by. And so far, no patrols of Watchmen thundering after them; she turned to double-check, reaching also to remove scarf and conjured hair, the last of her disguise.

And just as she thought Lancelot might prove too reticent for this sort of candid conversation between equals, he spoke. "I suppose if Lord Arthur had returned early, and entered your rooms as the intended sire of your heir, and I the one yet in danger on the road, you and he would still leave Camelot and come for me."

Well, that was unexpected. Wondering what he was getting at, she answered, "Yes, of course."

"Had you still the decision to make, he or I… what you would choose?"

"Everything's changed now," she said, with a sigh. "I honestly can't think beyond, finding Arthur and making sure the Twins don't take his party by surprise and kill him."

"If I may, Your Highness," he offered gently. "That may very well be your choice, right there."

"You mean that I –" Gwen said, and words deserted her. Visions flashed into feeling – Arthur lounging in the late afternoon sun in the library, leaning earnestly forward on the footstool below her, dropping his deep blue eyes to her lips as he asked for her favor. Confiding… thoughtful… "With Arthur?"

"When I left my neighbor's estate – if you don't mind that I speak plainly? – Laney asked, if you chose me, that I would at some opportune moment when my duty was fulfilled, present her petition that you relinquish me… to her."

"Oh, my," Gwen said faintly.

"That was why," he said, more hurriedly than was usual for him, as if he was eager to explain or excuse, "my elderly neighbor was willing to give the goblet. She approves of me for Laney, and if I make Laney happy…"

"And you really, really want to make her happy?" Gwen guessed, smiling to herself, even over the flutter of her heart at the thought of _love_ and Arthur.

"Yes. She's sweet and thoughtful and – needs someone to protect her, I think, from the more difficult realities life in… our kingdom, can bring."

So Lancelot's heart was spoken for. In the discarded consideration of choosing a sire for the royal line of succession – broken, probably, by her actions tonight – the quest and comparison of presented trophies, Gwen found she was perfectly happy to release Lancelot to this young stranger. Depending, of course, on whatever came next.

"I sincerely hope," she told him honestly, "that you return to her someday soon."

She heard the smile in his voice. "Thank you, Your Highness."

It was more disconcerting to think, she hoped the same strange twist of fate and love, had _not_ happened to Arthur along his way. He'd spoken of his desire for equal love, for commitment and respect and marriage – but she didn't know how he would react to learning of her change in status, and the word-of-mouth truth about his queen. She didn't suppose he was going to blink, and ask what she wanted him to do, but…

"There's a good place to stop to rest for the remainder of the night," Lancelot pointed out. "Just ahead. Or did you want to continue?"

She reflected. The horses were fresh and pursuit still a possibility – though more remote, the later it got, any patrol might be supposed to wait for better light in the morning – and she didn't imagine she could sleep anyway.

"Let's keep going, for now," she said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival thought about how he had assumed, he could guess when Merlin was thinking about his father the dragonlord, left back in the mountains for the visit of another day. Since the lake, Percival also believed, he could guess when Merlin was thinking of his experience there.

It wasn't the shy smile of great inner joy and contentment, the caress of the small carved dragon. It was a melancholy introspection, the boy's blue eyes fixed vaguely on the furthest point of the horizon visible – and thousands of leagues more distant than that. As if Merlin could somehow see through everything around him to some deeper meaning – or he was trying to, without complete success.

At moments like those, Percival watched him more closely, since Merlin seemed absolutely oblivious to his surroundings, his body carrying on walking or riding by instinct rather than intellect.

He had that look now.

Arthur and Leon were in the lead. Discussing, he guessed, where to camp for the night, even though they had at least an hour of daylight left, and another two of twilight. They couldn't reach Camelot before midnight, if they continued, but were within half a day's ride, here - back on the north road, heading south toward the capital, though they'd circled Ealdor to cross the eastern border. Tristan was behind them, and Gwaine behind Percival and Merlin, in the rear - limping and cursing his luck to have bruised his foot on a stone in the creek where they'd spent the previous night. No excuse for making his gelding carry his weight all the time – and Gwaine knew it – but being Gwaine, he was also going to complain vociferously the while.

"Aren't you finished yet?" Percival called good-naturedly over his shoulder. "I think you've started repeating yourself."

"Your sympathy is appreciated," Gwaine shot back. "Lords, it aches. It's probably swollen, I'll never get this boot off... Then I'll never get it back on…" His voice dropped to a grouchy mumble, before rising to address their boy-master. "Merlin, you think you can conjure something medicinal for this tonight?"

Percival glanced swiftly, anxiously, at his lanky companion, stumbling inattentively beside him, reins tucked in his elbow as he hugged his arms across his chest and stared away over the hindquarters of Tristan's mount in front of them, but Merlin didn't appear to have taken any notice of Gwaine's request.

Magic was a touchy subject since the lake, and whatever happened with the dry- no, the _naiad_ , Gwaine had corrected him when they'd discussed it. It was something more than Merlin's distracted state of mind, though, or even the delayed reaction of nearly drowning. The first night after the first day's travel away from the lake and waterfall and valley and river, the sheltering tent had vanished inexplicably in the middle of Merlin's sleep. And then, the sheepskin-material ground-cover padding they slept on, wouldn't dissipate. Here they were, almost two days later, still rolled on the backs of the saddles, as Arthur had decided not to simply leave them.

Percival thought, Arthur would be more concerned if anything unusual happened with the weapons, if he himself didn't have a _real_ sword, now. The sword. _King's_ sword, though no one had said one word aloud to speculate on what that might _mean_.

Ahead of them, Arthur and Leon were leading their mounts off the road, down a small and gradual hill to a quiet clearing. Arthur looked back over his shoulder – past Tristan – and in response to his concern, Percival took hold of the elbow Merlin's mare's reins were draped over, to turn his steps away from the road.

He said nothing that might have embarrassed Merlin for his inattention, but there was something in the younger man's blue gaze that was unsettling, when he looked at Percival. Something too ancient and _veteran_ for any seventeen-year-old. Even this one.

But Merlin blinked, and took in the attitudes and actions of their friends – securing mounts, investigating the site – comprehending without having to be told, they were stopping for the night.

Except – instead of following, quiet and obedient, to find a limb or a rock to hold his own reins while he turned to the straps and buckles that would remove the saddle – Merlin _panicked_.

Flinging his reins back in the mare's face – she snorted and twisted, bumping Percival off-balance – Merlin leaped down to the clearing.

Shrieking, " ' _Ware, ambush_!"

Armed men erupted from various features of the landscape. All over the clearing, suddenly – it had been a lovely place to camp, maybe they'd just been unlucky second-comers, interrupting the wrong group? – even across the road or down it toward the capital. Percival noted at least two on horseback in the distance, coming at speed.

Assuming Merlin was headed for Arthur, who was _well_ -armed, Percival hopped to catch his balance, and his sword from the conjured saddle-sheath. Slapping his mount's rump to get it clear of the fighting, he spared one glance for Gwaine.

No trace of a limp.

Percival smiled grimly and focused on their attackers. Or, rather, _his_.

Two immediately, and another right behind his fellows, each giving a novice's signal as to the direction and type of blow initially intended – block, sidestep, tangle one's sword with his neighbor's – side cut across his flank. He fell; Percival lunged to catch the hilt of the third man's blade in his off hand, stab short but sufficient to drop him. Thrust him away, and parry against the one left who was no longer impeded by the others.

A full second passed between that one's first blow, and second. A darting glance told Percival that there were no other enemies behind the one he faced – dressed in black, hooded and veiled. That bothered him enough that he parried and side-stepped, three times, to reverse their exchange, and he could see the others while occupying himself with this one, that posed no serious threat.

All the attackers were dressed the same, and it made him think of a city-alley, and fighting clumsily with a heavy chest full of gold.

One good thing was, only black-garbed figures were down. But none of those remaining seemed concerned with the fallen, no desperate and dirty tricks such as the corps dealt with when fighting border bandits. No military precision, either, their training seemed only basic to Percival.

He dodged the last attack by leaning sideways and back, and put his conjured blade through the man's chest. No one in his immediate vicinity; he took an extra second to evaluate _his_ companions.

No obvious injuries. No blonde or even feminine assailants.

Only Leon was not engaged, but Merlin was kneeling behind him, and as Percival watched, he slapped two bolts – one, then the other – into Leon's extended hand for the crossbow's use. The first bolt went wide of its mark – burying itself in the back of a black-clad man charging Arthur in an example of fantastic luck. The second flew true to Leon's aim – but seemed to have penetrated the attacker's skull, dead center of his forehead.

An impossible shot.

Percival was distracted by a yell from Gwaine, further down on his left, now, as they'd shifted while fighting – he'd maybe caught the heel of his bruised foot on a root, and was flailing to defend himself without his balance. In turning to assist, Percival glimpsed another enemy on Gwaine's other side, doing the same as Percival, for his comrade. Percival took one step – he wouldn't get there in time – and a great jagged branch crashed down on the further bandit, from somewhere in the trees overhead.

Impossible. Lucky. Or something.

Two more steps, and a two-handed swing nearly decapitated the stranger threatening Gwaine. Percival freed one hand to lift Gwaine, but cast his attention outward once again -

Leon's crossbow was in pieces in his hands, and he looked mad. Throwing them down, he scrambled to retrieve a weapon from one of the bodies; Merlin scrambled the other direction to do the same -

And Gwaine was on his feet, pushing off to rejoin the fight with a grin of thanks.

A shadow materialized behind Merlin and Percival's heart jumped into his throat – but a clumsy whirl and an instinctive lifting of the retrieved weapon was enough to save the young conjuror from injury. Nearly immediately, Merlin's attacker flung his weapon away, screaming and holding his empty hands as if in extreme pain.

Percival quit worrying about the unsettled state of Merlin's magic and the reason for it – it was clearly still sufficient for his young master's self-defense.

Merlin, of course, took no advantage of his opponent's disarming. Percival covered ground in sprinting strides and made sure the enemy didn't regain his weapon, plunging his sword through his chest and pushing him down. Merlin glanced at him in grateful chagrin – that slipped in an instant to the same look of alarmed awareness that had preceded his shouted warning of the ambush.

"Riders approaching from the south, on the road!"

Percival lifted his head to scan their immediate area. The others still fought, one or two each – Tristan faced three, but with a blade in either hand, Percival considered that fair – and the horses weren't far, if they needed to escape.

"Get to Arthur," he told Merlin. Then, sword in hand, he used the other to scramble up from the low clearing to the road, as the two riders he'd noticed only moments before reined in to a clattering, dusty stop.

Both dismounted in a flurry – male and female, white shirts and dark trousers – probably not part of the band attacking, but the woman was doubtless a citizen, and might –

She caught sight of Percival, and signaled the man; they left their reins trailing to hurry toward him. Their faces were familiar, but –

"Are you one of Arthur's men?" the young woman shouted. A belt-knife materialized in her hand, and her companion drew his sword behind her, already searching downwards from the road. Two steps closer and he knew her – what the hell was the _princess_ doing this far from the capital and with only a single male escort?

"He's there," Percival said, pointing. "We've been set upon – bandits, maybe." Because he hadn't seen the blonde, Morgause, to make that accusation.

"Oh," she said blankly.

Percival glanced at her – eyebrows lifted and hand at her throat in stunned attitude as she looked for the lord who was their leader - then back at Arthur, who was keeping two persistent attackers occupied. It occurred to him suddenly, that the better-skilled or experienced fighters had survived longer, to prove more difficult to finish.

Merlin kept in Arthur's shadow as if watching his back, but the lord appeared to be fighting the two in order to protect the younger man, of all of them unaccustomed to sword-play. He glanced up at them – words were exchanged – and Arthur spared a single glare for the three of them.

For his part, Percival felt a pang of responsibility to rejoin the clash taking place, and again evaluated where his presence might do the most good - no one was charging their position up on the road. Leon and Gwaine were back-to-back, and fine for now, but – down and to the left, Tristan's body jerked in a way Percival recognized all too well.

"Stay with her!" he bellowed at the princess' companion, dashing down the hill to Tristan's aid.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin cursed the unreliability of his magic – not for the first time – and wished whole-heartedly that the Lady had reappeared after Excalibur, to explain a few things.

 _Your magic is strong and unique_ , she'd said.

But it felt… it felt almost like an illness – something not quite right, something not working as it was supposed to – maybe even an infection, accompanied by a slight rise in temperature. Warm and restless… like his water-skin, half-full and tipped side to side – not enough for this, way too much for that; conjuration that didn't work, but more than conjuration, sometimes – trying to level off so maybe he could start to understand it again.

Everyone had noticed, and surely wondered. Only Arthur had said anything – a private and awkward inquiry into Merlin's wellbeing, met with blank confusion on Merlin's part, til Arthur had added, "Your magic?"

Oh. That.

He'd twitched his shoulders and muttered something conciliatory if not explanatory, and miserably watched Arthur mentally readjust plans and strategy to accommodate Merlin's new weakness. And even though they had gained the sword, the object of their quest, Merlin felt twice as useless as when he'd believed it his fault that Arthur had missed his chance. At least, he'd told himself, their journey would be homeward, now, short and with diminished expectation of risk.

And then this ambush.

He cursed his wayward magic yet again, as he looked up toward the road and immediately recognized the newcomers next to Percival. Princess Guinevere and Lord Lancelot.

And how and why men who reminded him of the Twins' slaves, though thankfully neither citizen-conjuror had presented herself to fight, had been lying in wait for their return – he couldn't think of the attack in any other terms that made sense – was forgotten in the new worry and complication.

So far his companions were still on their feet. But he was aware, their attackers hadn't all charged at once. Later arrivals were still sliding around the trees to provide new challenge to – Merlin assumed it had to be the case – tiring fighters. Leon's conjured crossbow had fallen apart, but he was decent with a blade, and Gwaine fighting in tandem with him was excellent, so no worries there.

"Arthur!" he called. "The princess! Up on the road!"

The golden-haired lord barely paused in his – sixth? or seventh? – bout with another black-clad attacker to glance in that direction. "Get up there!" Arthur snarled to him, and Merlin knew him well enough not to be personally offended in the stress of the moment. "Guard her with your life!"

The sword felt unwieldy in his hand, as he carried it like a weapon, and not as a conjured object offered to one of his friends more comfortable using such a thing. Heavy, and clumsy, and as he sprinted across the clearing, he had the odd worry that he'd trip and impale himself.

Percival barreled down toward the right, presumably to engage other enemies. The princess and Lancelot – sword bared and held confidently; what was Merlin to do in her defense? – slipped down the small hill as if to meet him. She had a dagger in her hand and he wondered if she intended to join the fight offensively. In that moment – curly hair braided simply and efficiently, plain dark trousers and white shirt belted at her waist, determination showing on her face rather than any other emotion – he could well believe it of her.

But her eyes widened, looking at him – no, past him – and she shrieked, "Arthur! _No_!"

Merlin slid to a spinning stop to look back, and understood her reaction immediately.

The black-clad bandit the lord faced was hoodless and unveiled, every bit as golden-haired as he, gleefully intent upon their duel. Morgause – with all that recognition of her included. Deceptive, murderous – _conjuror_.

She wielded a sword well enough to match Arthur, it seemed; Merlin watched them trade strikes and blocks for the space of two breaths, and neither gained an immediate advantage, but as soon as she knocked his blade aside and moved close enough to _touch_ him –

Their swords caught together and she twisted sideways and –

For the second time in an embarrassingly short interval, Merlin panicked.

 _No_ was a surge of absolute intent, a pulse of fierce heat rising in him and exploding out of him – crossing the clearing in a blink to armor and protect Merlin's lord against Morgause's malice… but again, his magic misbehaved. A great wave of _something_ rippled out from him – had he conjured wind? he'd never heard of that, was it even possible?

He was aware that Morgause staggered and lost hold of her weapon, but Arthur was knocked clean off his feet, flipped bodily over and slammed to the earth. Unmoving.

Absolute and eerie silence. No more clash of weaponry metal, grunt or cry of combatants.

Merlin took one step forward in dumb disbelief, then another, his eyes locked on Arthur's form, willing him to move, to rise – even if it was to call Merlin an idiot, past the ringing in his ears.

The princess rushed past him – _she loves him, too_ – sliding to her knees over his body, reaching to check him for signs of life. Lancelot was just behind her, looking outward in a stance that seemed prepared to defend them both. Merlin hazily recollected the others – Percival and Tristan, Gwaine and Leon – _Morgause_ …

He turned, right into her eyes – darkly brilliant with triumph. And into her hand, catching him around the throat.

Merlin froze.

Because she was a citizen, a conjuror. Forget squeezing or choking, she could form a blade as quick as thought, and large enough to slice his head from his shoulders in an instant, and he had no defense. Nothing he tried would be fast enough – and she knew that he knew it.

"Tell me," she said, forming her phrases with slow arrogance. "What you did to prevent the swords I conjured for my men, from dissolving in your men's hands."

He had an insane and ridiculous urge to swallow – and fought it, knowing she would feel every tiny ripple of the muscles in his neck, and not wanting to give her the satisfaction of his fear.

Her hair was wild, her other hand empty, and she smirked at his silence, taking no notice of anyone else. "If you ask me," she remarked, clearly and condescendingly, "you ought to have listed your name for the auction, to begin with. Obviously, no male is worthy of citizenship. Come to think of it, it would be my pleasure to brand you with the slave's mark you deserve."

Her black-brown eyes flared gold and Merlin felt a second's worth of fascination, of yearning disappointment that they could not find fellowship in a shared oddity.

Then he felt fire.

Blinding, choking, burning. He couldn't pull away, couldn't yell, couldn't even breathe – it was far more terrifying than entering the lake-lady's realm. He was convinced death was imminent –

And once again his magic exploded from him. Apparently by-passing his hands completely – but hers disappeared from his throat. He stumbled, dragging in a raggedly painful breath, reaching to be sure it entered through his mouth, not some bloody hole seared through his neck.

His skin was agonizingly tender, but whole. And in the moment, that was good enough for him.

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay! And another two weeks, til chapter 16… Apologies also for any shortcomings, this was a rush job…**

Msomaji – thanks for reviewing, I know you're busy! Normally I don't like the idea of giving Merlin immortality willy-nilly, but I thought it might be nice to offer it as something he'd be delighted to accept… except of course for Arthur. And I guess it's semantics, whether to call it a choice, when we all know he doesn't even have to weigh his options, it's Arthur in a heartbeat. Fate, as you said, but something he doesn't exactly mind, even though he still feels what he's given up…

Kirsten – glad you enjoyed the chapter! Yes, if Arthur gets a choice, then Merlin does, too! (although, see above for the word 'choice'!) Balance is definitely a theme for this fic, cup/sword, Lancelot/Arthur – different, but necessary…


	16. Killer and Healer

**Chapter 16: Killer and Healer**

It was shock, Gwen decided, that allowed her to feel so calm and rational, when the world was collapsing about her ears. A series of shocks, probably, but she didn't have the time to trace back to the first…

That day, though. She and Lancelot hadn't been in time to prevent the Twins' ambush of Arthur's party, but -

Maybe he hadn't needed the warning.

She'd watched certain sedate matches between him and Lancelot, crossing blades for pass-time and exercise, and by Lancelot's intake of startled breath beside her, looking down to the clearing, he also realized how very civilized Arthur had been, to keep those bouts evenly matched. How very tame.

It was a different Arthur she saw, down the little bank off the road, past a few high-limbed trees. The word _ferocious_ came to her mind, to see him not only defend against but _defeat_ , two at a time – and an odd little thrill ran up her spine.

Not quite fear, but… excitement? Paired with a subtle knowledge that such fierce and deadly ability would always protect her, that he would take a breath and step back and acquiesce to her command. Not because she could force him to, but because he chose to give her that power.

 _The power of love – and respect – is stronger than that of fear._

Then, in quick succession – his glare of fury to see her there, and she wasn't entirely sure of the reasons prompting it – Percival's shouted command, slave to Lord Lancelot and wasn't that backwards – the appearance of Morgause, sword in hand, unhesitatingly demonstrating the very worst of intentions – the reaction of Merlin, halfway between Arthur and her, as some sort of messenger, maybe, to Morgause's presence –

What _was_ that violent phenomenon of wind? –

And Gwen was across the clearing to Arthur in a moment, sprawled unmoving and – only unconscious. She hoped the same was true for Arthur's two other men, knocked to the ground half a dozen quick paces away, one the carefree slave of Merlin's that had come to speak to her, the other the quiet escort of her suitor.

It was definitely shock on Merlin's face, as Morgause wrapped her fingers around his neck and spoke contemptuously of slavery. "You ought to have listed your name for the auction, to begin with…"

 _Healer and killer_ , Gwen couldn't help thinking.

She knew the rules of conjuration as well as any, and the ease with which the blonde woman could drop the young man's body a corpse. But they wanted him a slave, the only one whose life they'd spare, maybe. Everyone else dead – and as for Gwen herself?

"It would be my pleasure…" Morgause went on threateningly – and Gwen's attention was caught away as her twin stepped out of the deeper fringe of trees away from the road, behind Morgause.

Dressed in black as her sister and the slaves, her hair loose on her shoulders, but in the more feminine form of a dress – the impression slightly offset by the blade in her hand, half-raised in mocking menace, now that the fighting was done. That sentiment was copied in Morgana's smirk as she met Gwen's eyes, past Morgause and Merlin in her grasp.

Perhaps they'd take Gwen back to Camelot, to her room and the required conception of an heir before her usefulness ran out. Perhaps they'd kill her, and never tell Nimueh – possibly angling to be named heir, in place of the vanished princess, one or the other of them.

Prone on the ground beside her, Arthur stirred, struggling groggily to right himself and absorb the situation. Without looking away from Morgana's green triumph, Gwen put her left hand down – on his, in its glove. Still gripping the hilt of his weapon.

Her dagger remained in her right hand, but the fingers of her left slid between Arthur's, slid the sword out of his hand, and she surged up from her crouch, fully intending to threaten Morgana in exchange for Morgause turning Merlin lose, negotiate further for the safe retreat of the rest of their party. Morgana's gaze intensified, and she brought her sword-point up in eager readiness.

But Morgause's eyes flared with the unusual gold of powerful conjuration, interrupting and distracting them both.

Merlin's body arched slightly up on his toes, head lifting, arms-hands-fingers spreading, every muscle taut with resistance or pain. The sound that curled from the back of his throat was like an elbow in the pit of Gwen's stomach, enough to stop her short.

And then, an unexpected reoccurrence of the wind singularity. Slamming Morgause away from Merlin - though it felt only a strong but oddly gentle gust that buffeted Gwen.

She was quite sure her entire body was airborne for a moment, floating weightlessly and not unpleasantly. Then the ground tilted under her heels and she caught her balance in a crouch, fisted weapons down to brace herself for further action, whatever was necessary against –

Morgause, pushed two paces back from Merlin, stood frozen in a shock of her own, blood on her hands as she stared down at several inches of bladed metal, right through the center of her chest. Behind her, horror had scoured Morgana's smirk from her face – she released the hilt of her weapon as her blonde twin collapsed lifelessly in the dirt. For a moment more, Morgana stared down at her sister – dead, Gwen couldn't but believe.

Merlin curled over unsteadily, eyes unfocused as he fumbled at his neck. Beside and behind Gwen, Arthur made stifled sounds of pain as he gripped her shoulder – she shifted her weight to accommodate his – and hauled himself upright.

Then Morgana screamed.

And the whole clearing erupted in chaos.

"No! No!"

Earthquake, maybe. Or the sudden wind that sometimes preceded a violent spring thunderstorm? Gwen shielded head and face with her forearm, hand still clutching her dagger, and saw Morgana's eyes. Glowing steadily gold.

Magic. Somehow. Having nothing to do with conjuration, or her hands – Morgana screamed again and again in pain and denial.

" _Noooo_!"

Trees creaked. Roots pulled the earth open. Arthur fought against the forces of air pressing them down, his face a grimace of agony and desperation; Merlin dropped to his knees, head gripped between his hands and coughed – or spat, or vomited – blood.

And it was getting worse.

Only one thought came to Gwen, but she hesitated one more moment more to yell into the howling wind, "Morgana, stop!"

A large branch crashed down, bounced, and blew into a neighbor tree. Gwen could imagine the other woman's horror, unintentionally causing the death of her closest loved one, friend and partner – yet it was true that they had initiated law-breaking, and sought violence. It was a terrible price to pay, but both Twins had chosen this path.

Gwen lifted her arm, feeling the base of one edge of the blade with her thumb, bending her wrist back toward her forearm for a close-range cast, as she'd been trained – extensively and privately, before her coming-of-age – years ago, but the skill was hers to keep. Merlin lifted his head suddenly, as if he sensed what she would do – but he looked toward Morgana, rather than Gwen.

She cast. Hoping more than trusting to her aim, in the tumult of dust and leaves and twigs scratching at her in protest as the wind yanked them past.

But the dagger flipped true, and struck sooner than Gwen was prepared for, right in Morgana's chest. Gwen was willing to believe, somehow in the exact same location as the blade through her sister's body.

Chaos spun out and died down, as Morgana dropped her head to observe the hilt. She reached to touch it – then, as if she'd changed her mind, put out her hand to catch herself as she toppled to the ground. Atop and beside and tangled with Morgause.

Gwen pushed to her feet as Merlin straightened on his haunches, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve. She took a single step forward to see that Morgana's face was turned to her sister's blank-eyed countenance, and the dying look of the black-haired Twin, before the green eyes dropped shut forever, was relief.

It made Gwen feel a little better.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When Morgana's magic exploded in the clearing, Merlin _felt_ it, even through the searing pain in his neck.

Conjuration, he'd always considered an ability or skill like any other, like reading or wielding weaponry, medicine or horse-handling, something that became part of a person through training and enjoyment and desire to progress, but not something that was felt, like an added part of the body.

This was different. This was more… this was other.

Completely opposite to the magic he'd felt with the lady of the lake – pure serenity and absolute balance – this was wild and uncontrolled and angry. Palpably vindictive.

This magic mauled him viciously inside – organs, muscles, bone – raked and splattered and pulped, as if Morgana was trying to draw the very essence of _life_ out of him, in an attempt to revive her sister. The ground hit his knees; he gagged and tasted a sour tang of metal.

But it wasn't just him. The guts of the earth, the trees as bones, the air currents as the web of veins – the world itself shrieked silently as if it, too, was being torn apart. _Everything_ thrashed in protest as Morgana's magic squeezed and twisted and – it could not continue. It had to be stopped.

He didn't know what to do.

Merlin blinked his vision blurry, raised his head to focus as clearly as he could, on black gown and black hair and white face. Red lips wide as she screamed.

But there was another pattern, deeper and stronger than the devastation her fury wreaked; he sensed it and reached for it and glimpsed it for one instant – it wasn't his hand that cast the judgment and the weapon, but it was his heart that somehow assured the aim of the razor-sharp blade that _decided_.

He gasped when it stopped. Her magic, her breath, her heartbeat – and his ears rang with a stillness unbroken even by her tumble to the ground, her body settling lifeless with her dead twin.

For an eternal moment he waited uneasily for another change – for meaning – for the world to go on.

And then it did.

Leon and Gwaine were on their feet, moving quickly – unbloodied, unhindered – toward him. Toward them. There was no trace of levity on Gwaine's face, but a tremor in his voice as he said, to Merlin, "What the hell was that?"

Merlin had no answer.

Instead he twisted on his knees to see Arthur on his feet, blue eyes stormy and jaw clenched, one arm oddly cradled against his rib cage on the left side. His sword – _the_ sword, Merlin amended – in the princess' hand as she turned to Arthur almost fearfully, and neither of them seemed to notice the transference of the weapon. It was strange and it was perfect; in complete contentment he watched Arthur gather Guinevere to his side, under his right arm. Watched the lord speak to the princess in a low tone, watched her cling to him and turn her face up to his. Watched Arthur drop a kiss on the middle of her forehead, as she closed her eyes and appeared to draw strength from him.

Then Arthur was looking down at Merlin, and he was resisting Gwaine's efforts to lift him to his feet, merely by being uncooperative and ignoring him.

 _Are you all right_. He saw the question in Arthur's eyes and on his lips and he'd asked the question too often for Merlin's pride and happiness, both. Arthur should not concern himself so, especially when Merlin was proving more trouble than he was worth.

"I'm sorry," he said - and somehow Gwaine had him on his feet again, though his attention was all on his lord; he ignored Gwaine's tugging at the collar of his tunic and the laces of his shirt, as the throbbing burn of his neck and throat was only distant. "Arthur, I'm really sorry, I don't know what happened, if that was me at all, I only wanted some distance between you and her and I don't know what happened."

"All right," Arthur said calmly, but the blue of his eyes was still alert, keen and intense. Beside him, Leon was trying to move his hand, inspect the injury – no blood, though, to Merlin's eyes. "The Twins are finished, and their slaves, and it doesn't look like any of ours were severely –"

" _Arthur_."

Percival's voice, and Merlin's pulse quickened at the tone, though he wasn't addressed. Arthur and the princess both turned, Arthur brushing Leon's concern away – before he took off with a grunt and a long, light stride. Leon glanced after him, stepping to the princess as Lord Lancelot did the same from several discreet paces behind her.

"Your Highness, are you hurt?"

She murmured something that sounded negative, but Arthur's voice interrupted. Sharp as the snap of a branch – " _Merlin_."

Clumsily he pushed between the others, stumbling forward.

Percival sat on his heels, supporting Tristan, who was sprawled in an uncomfortable-looking position. The big soldier's square face was granite, and Arthur knelt beside them, carefully but quickly, bending to move one of Percival's hands, clasped over Tristan's belly. Percival's palm was red-smeared, and Tristan's lined face twisted with pain at the movement; Merlin rushed the last few steps, aware that the others behind him had followed.

"Let me see," he said to Percival, dropping to his own knees at Tristan's other side. There was conjured cloth already in his hand to pad and staunch the flow of blood. "Arthur, get his belt off and move his shirt and tunic out of the way." Over his shoulder – the princess was the first face he saw, but it didn't matter – he demanded, "Someone get my horse, I've got needle and thread in one of the saddle-bags. And make it _fast_."

Water he could conjure as soon as see the wound, and yarrow to help stop the bleeding. Arthur began to clear the wound for Merlin to see – oh, lords, he was decent with minor injuries, but from the gray sheen of the Tristan's face, he was afraid it wasn't _minor_.

Percival said, "It went in from the back."

Merlin froze for a moment, staring at him, how his other hand was awkwardly tucked beneath Tristan's body. Percival shook his head, his meaning clear, but Merlin's body carried on independent of his mind, which seemed stuck. Another handful of clean soft cloth, and he bent to scoop his arm underneath the wounded man, half-turning him toward Arthur.

He couldn't see, but it was very wet. His fingers fumbled into Percival's, and the moan that spurted between Tristan's teeth stabbed through Merlin also.

Arthur had carried on as well, and Merlin conjured water to rinse Tristan's belly; it appeared an inch-and-a-half-long cut, diagonal and close to his navel, oozing blood. Arthur gently replaced the reddened wad of cloths, but Tristan panted and said, "Merlin… don't."

Merlin didn't move. He still couldn't quite comprehend what was happening, and Tristan rolled his head on Percival's shoulder to meet his eyes.

"You're a good man," he gritted. His uppermost arm shot out to collide with Merlin's shoulder, his fingers fumbling for a grip. Merlin felt a bit of shock that the older man thought so, and would say it. "A good… But you can't… You can't."

Every breath was voiced with the fallen fighter's pain, and every one sent a pang of sympathetic commiseration through Merlin. It was distracting, how wrong it felt, that hole ripped through Tristan's flesh. Merlin's heart and stomach seemed to have switched places; his heart stabbed through with dread, again and again, low in his gut, while his stomach rolled with uncertain nausea at the base of his throat, and he had to swallow - again and again – to control the urge to retch.

He looked to Arthur, and the question, _what do I do_ , died in his mouth.

Arthur was looking to _him_ , blue eyes glistening dark with anguish, jaw tight to lock it inside. Pleading, pleading with Merlin for help that was beyond his ability to give, and the wound in Merlin's heart ripped a little further, to be so helpless.

The older man's tremors rippled through Merlin's body as he released him, reaching for Arthur – who caught his hand and carried it to the hollow of his shoulder.

"My lord," Tristan managed. "My lord… It has been… my very great pleasure to… serve you… always."

"Even when I was eleven, and thought I knew the training better than you did?" Arthur said – but his forced chuckle was a strangled sob and a solitary tear splashed down his face.

"If you see her…" The older man's face was slick-gray under his untidy blonde hair, his voice soft and unsteady. "Tell her…"

"I know, Tristan." Arthur struggled for composure. "I will. I'll find her, and tell her. She'll know."

Critical necessity pulled at Merlin to _do something_ , to save a life, to spare Arthur and all of them this pain and loss. He could almost see the pattern of his friend's body, threads connecting up and down and side to side and back to front and a thousand different directions and purposes – all cut in one place, all stretching to join again, but in a dumb instinctive way, without control or sentient purpose.

Fire rose in Merlin's chest, seared his throat anew, scalded his eyes. Without thinking, he moved Arthur's hand from Tristan's belly to place his own there, to follow the pattern between his palms. He couldn't conjure _flesh -_ it was too intricate; he didn't know enough – but if he could provide the intelligent guidance to all the miniscule parts of the body that cried out against their rending and struggled to be whole…

He closed his eyes to concentrate, abandoning his own senses to focus on the pattern and match the threads again – timing was everything – _there_. And there. And…

There. There there there – theretheretherethere… _tttthhhheeeerrrreeee_ …

When the last connection sealed it came as a surprise and shock – _what am I doing? what have I done?_ – and the greens and browns and blues of the world tipped unsteadily in his vision as he fell back, blinking.

Tristan spoke a very foul curse, very slowly, his fingers exploring his belly roughly and insistently. Percival supported him as he raised himself – and as the older man's gray eyes, wide with astonishment, met Merlin's, he was aware that both Percival and Arthur were staring at him, too.

No longer wordless vulnerable misery, hopeless indiscriminate plea. It was shock and evaluation – _re-_ evaluation, and it made Merlin feel a stranger. Lost and unknown, even to himself.

That was impossible. What just happened – _what just happened?_ – was impossible. That made him… what did that make him?

Gwaine said something incredulous-sounding.

Merlin couldn't bear it. Not Arthur's expression, or his own confusion, or the reactions of the others. He scrambled backward – more than one behind him stepping quickly out of his way – then turned to hands and knees. Got his feet under him, and _fled_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

With the last attacker in the immediate vicinity twitching on the ground, Percival focused on Tristan.

The wound was fatal, he knew that immediately. But his instinct was still to delay the inevitable, give the older fighter as many moments as he could. Percival propped him up on his knee and fisted his clothing over both wounds, front and back, half-embracing the man in his attempt to hold the blood inside the body a little while longer.

Tristan gasped, his gray eyes glazed but frantic, face beading with shock-perspiration; Percival found himself wishing he'd tried harder to get to know the older man better. Now that his chance was gone.

"Hold on," he instructed Tristan, uselessly. "Hold on."

It took several moments, several seemingly important and agonizing adjustments, til Tristan quit trying for a more comfortable position. Percival was aware, though quick darted glances, that the black-clad figures were down – that Arthur was down but moving – that Morgause had gotten a hand on Merlin but he shook her off without apparent serious injury. Percival hoped. He caught the moment that the blonde Twin died, impaled on her own sister's weapon.

Then the strange and unexpected and violent windstorm. He sheltered Tristan with his own body as best he could, listening to him gasp obscenities with half an ear.

Both of which rang in the silence that followed. Then Tristan made an odd gurgling sound in his throat, and Percival looked in his eyes, _knowing_.

His throat closed and he looked away to watch Arthur put an arm around the princess, a clear consolation after the battle was _over_ , Morgana nowhere in sight – and Guinevere seemed perfectly happy to accept it. Gwaine lifted Merlin, and Leon checked the side Arthur was favoring, and none of them _knew_.

" _Arthur_ ," Percival managed.

And in half a minute, the rest were there, Arthur and Merlin kneeling to both sides of the wounded fighter. Percival saw fear and helplessness on both of their faces – Arthur because he could do nothing, and Merlin because he felt he _should_ , but didn't know _what_.

Tristan tried to voice his goodbyes, when surely every breath and every word hurt, and now Percival wanted to tell him, _don't hold on anymore, you can let go now_.

Merlin scrabbled at Percival's fingers, still trying to hold a wad of blood-soaked shirt and tunic against Tristan's back, where the sword had pierced him, and his boy-master's hand felt oddly hot, to Percival. He moved his hand instinctively from Merlin's way – but froze in place.

The young man's eyes were almost black, and met no one else's – the expression was the profound abstraction Percival had guessed meant Merlin was thinking about those moments spent under the water of the lake.

Then they blazed gold.

Percival had only a moment for surprised wonder, before Merlin's eyes dropped shut. All other sound ceased; Percival felt Tristan inhale – slow and impossibly deep – and the color drained from Merlin's skin as if his own vitality trickled to the wounded man.

 _Stop him_ , he wanted to say to Arthur. _Whatever he's doing, whatever he's trying, stop him_ … but Percival felt seriously apprehensive about the consequences of interruption.

It was only a moment anyway - no time for anyone else to react - before Merlin's eyes flew open again. He released Tristan with an odd flinging motion that moved the older man not at all, but seemed to unbalance himself.

Uncertainty was what Percival felt, but as the cringing stillness he'd been absorbing from Tristan's body gave way to deep breaths and confident instinctive movement, he realized and believed and rejoiced in the miracle. Or magic, or Merlin, or whatever… But his boy-master looked like he'd terrified himself quite thoroughly.

Gwaine said, obnoxiously, "I repeat. What the hell, was that?"

Merlin's look changed immediately to one of shame, as though he'd inflicted Tristan's wound himself, or spectacularly failed a promise, or… Merlin twisted on the ground, awkwardly – desperately – scrambling, as if to escape from them, but he stumbled unsteadily and it was clear to Percival that he wasn't going to get far.

Leon said, "Tristan?"

The lean soldier, still supported by Percival, replied somewhat bemusedly, "I'm fine."

Gwaine hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction Merlin was taking, informing the rest of them, "I'll go after him."

"No," Percival said immediately, and though he gained everyone's attention, he spoke to his long-haired friend only. "Let him go."

Gwaine's expression shifted, just slightly, in comprehension of Percival's meaning. He could tease and shock Merlin out of general melancholy and disconsolation, but cheering up, was probably not what the young man needed right now. Some time to calm down, to reflect, then maybe some calm reassurance.

But Arthur was also looking at Percival, and his expression said he wasn't convinced that Merlin would be okay. So Percival added, "I'll go, in a moment."

"Lovely," Tristan interjected grumpily, twisting in Percival's grasp. "Then perhaps you should let go of me, first?"

Percival did – slowly, to be sure Tristan wasn't going to collapse – and Arthur helped lay him down on the ground, flat to rest.

"You're going to be okay, then?" Arthur said.

"This is still my blood, all over and not inside me where it belongs any longer," Tristan grumbled, letting his body relax. "I have a request, my lord – may I be excused from duty for tonight?"

"If you swear to report back, first thing in the morning." Arthur's mouth twisted as if he were trying ineffectively to hold back a smile. Laying one hand on Tristan's shoulder, he looked up at the rest. "Let's see to camp. Dinner, and a bit of comfort? Lancelot, if you'd help me round up the horses still left anywhere near here – Gwaine and Leon, deal with the dead. My lady – as you please."

"I could sit here with him?" the princess suggested, indicating Tristan prone on the ground.

Then Arthur did smile. "Hear that, Tristan? Mind your manners for royal company. Thank you, Guinevere."

Percival felt a shiver warm his spine at the way the lord said her name – shook it off and laughed at himself. Then again, if change was in the wind…

He pushed to his feet, aware that Arthur had not set him a specific task, and followed the direction Merlin had gone. He had it in mind that there was a stream off the east side of the road, sooner or later… And found it, a narrow ribbon wetting stones and ducking rushes. Percival contemplated it, then began to follow downstream. Maybe twice ten paces, before he found Merlin.

Seated in the long grass of the bank among the tree roots, tunic discarded and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, the rest of that white garment plastered wetly to his body. The ends of his dusty black hair clumped together and dripping testified to his attempt at cleansing, and a mark in the shape of a hand stood out on the white skin of his throat – reddened, but not blistered. Now he sat motionless – but the faraway look was not wistful quietude, anymore.

Merlin looked haunted.

Percival bit his lip on a questioning call of his name, as too familiar, somehow. Merlin was special, he'd known that from the beginning of their relationship, but now it seemed he might also be _great_. And Percival would never be more than ordinary, and though that was perfectly fine with him, he didn't allow a more natural-feeling _Sir_ to cross his lips either. Merlin deserved the respect ten times over, but at that moment it might serve to make him feel more alienated from his comrades, than before.

So Percival simply splashed into the brook a bit upstream from his young master, and crouched down to wash the blood from his hands. Merlin looked up, as if just realizing his presence, but Percival waited a moment longer before speaking.

"That was very well done."

Merlin gave no indication he'd heard him. Hands tucked under his arms, shoulders hunched, he looked very bony and young – but his eyes were enormously ancient, in a face so drawn it was almost cadaverous.

"What am I?" he whispered.

Percival was not sure what Merlin meant. He was not sure what to say, to soothe and reassure – a man, a citizen, a conjuror… more? He settled for a simple, firm, "You're _you_."

"I mean…" Merlin shifted sideways as Percival sloshed his way to the bank and threw himself down on the grass, beginning to feel the effects of battle exertions. "That, what happened. I don't even know… it can't happen, magic doesn't work like that."

"Maybe yours does," Percival said, and met Merlin's gaze frankly as the younger man studied him – for what, he didn't know.

Whatever it was he saw, he let out a heavy sigh, and slumped as if his breath had been the only thing keeping him upright. And they sat there as the sun descended behind them, halved by the horizon as Percival glanced back – but it helped, he felt. He hoped.

And then there were footsteps. Percival hadn't really expected anyone, but maybe Gwaine – or Arthur –

Leon stepped into view on the other side of the little stream, and Percival assumed that meant, the bodies of their assailants had been moved away from the clearing. Percival nodded to the curly-haired soldier, but Merlin had stiffened up; he kept his head down as Leon paused, across from them and absently petting a fluffy head of grass he'd plucked.

"I've known Tristan all my adult life," Leon remarked, stating a fact of mild interest. "I think he's always intended to give his in Lord Arthur's service – or Commander Uther's, or Lady Ygraine's. But I am very glad, today was not that day." Merlin's tension gradually eased to a listening awareness; as he lifted his head, Leon added sincerely, "Thank you, Merlin, very much for that."

Again Merlin _studied_ , and Leon appeared not a bit discomfited by the scrutiny. Then the boy glanced back at Percival as if to say, _Really? okay, then_ … Merlin pushed himself to his feet and said, a bit shyly, "I suppose I should see to camp, then?"

It felt like both _you're welcome_ and _thank you_ , to Percival – maybe to Leon, too. He smiled and said, "We could use some help, entertaining royalty tonight."

"Arthur should have that covered," Percival said, rolling and dragging himself upright as well – times like these, he almost regretted size and height. Almost. "Still, she seems a surprisingly decent sort. You don't come across women like her, often."

Leon made a noise that was almost disagreement, as they all began a slow walk back toward the clearing. "You don't come across women that have the confidence in themselves and their positions to be genuine, often."

There was that, Percival reflected, and wondered how many citizens treated slaves and soldiers how they were expected or taught, rather than what they were naturally inclined to do.

"She reminds me of my mother," Merlin said. "That way. Strong, but kind."

Strong enough to be kind, which was maybe Leon's point. Percival found himself thinking over his memories of his own mother. Perhaps it would be worth doing – if any of them were still free to make these kinds of choices, after this – trying to find his mother and sisters, in Camelot.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin followed Leon back to the clearing feeling more apprehensive than he had to enter the arena. There, he hadn't cared what anyone thought, it hadn't meant anything to him. Here…

Even thought it felt to his new magic sense that _everything_ had changed… nothing had changed.

He stumbled to an uncertain stop. Gwaine was busy giving one horse out of half a dozen a quick-looking rubdown. Lord Lancelot carried the last of the saddles to a loose semi-circle around a fire – fed with twigs by the princess herself, turning in her crouch to check Tristan, sprawled and snoring on one of the lingering sheepskin pads. Leon went to join Gwaine; Percival clapped Merlin's shoulder with a friendly smile before stooping to rummage in one of the saddlebags, then another – for their foodstuffs, Merlin guessed. Each of the others – Gwaine alerted by Leon's arrival, Lancelot and the princess by Percival – glanced up at Merlin. He forced himself not to look away – and found an involuntary smile growing on his face, along with a slight flush at the smiles turned his way. Glad to see him, glad he was all right, sincerity rather than the suspicion he'd feared.

Following his inclination, he dropped to a knee at Tristan's side, giving the princess a more self-conscious smile as he reached to check the injured man himself – lightly and carefully, to leave his sleep undisturbed, his head pillowed on his tunic – and she responded with an encouraging nod.

Briefly he wondered, why she was _there_ , but didn't figure it for his place to ask.

"Have you ever done that before?" she asked him, as he lifted the loose hem of Tristan's unbelted shirt.

He avoided the frank curiosity of her dark eyes, wondering if he ought to have bowed to her before seeing to the – formerly wounded man. The blood had been washed off Tristan's skin, leaving not even a scar. He said, a bit dazed to _see_ the work of repair he had _felt_ , "No, never."

"How did you –"

"I don't know." He lowered Tristan's shirt, and then, realizing he had interrupted, he stammered, "Your Highness, I apologize –"

"Have you ever tried?" Unperturbed, she interrupted him right back, seeming more interested in the discussion than their manners.

He shook his head slowly, holding her gaze. Perhaps he owed the crown princess the story, his best attempt at explaining the changes his magic seemed determined to make, but…

"Incredible," she pronounced, with another proud smile. So very unexpected Merlin couldn't stop a look of amused confusion, and she caught it immediately. "What is it?"

"Pardon, my lady," he said quietly, risking honestly – though he did look away, to absently perform the task of conjuring the dishware they'd need for the dinner Percival was beginning to prepare. "It's just – you seem so very different from -"

"From…" she said, drawing the word out to request completion of his sentence.

"The Twins?" he ventured. At least.

Her grin was immediate, and so wide that her cheeks bunched and her eyes crinkled. "Thank you very much."

It felt so very odd to be talking to the princess of Camelot like a casual neighbor. He said, "My lady, do you happen to know – where's Arthur?"

She lifted her head to search past his right shoulder. "He said there was another horse or two he thought he could bring in before – oh, here he comes."

Merlin twisted to watch Arthur saunter into the clearing, leading two of their mounts – one of which was his brown mare, in fact. The lord wore a blank look of focused contemplation, but when his eyes found Merlin's, Merlin stood immediately to meet him, leaving the princess and Tristan a few paces behind. Though Arthur moved a little stiffly, he didn't betray any other sign of pain.

"If," Arthur said deliberately, "you don't say _I'm sorry_ , I won't say, _are you all right_." Merlin let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and grinned. Arthur added, "You know you don't have to do that… Hide, from us."

Merlin opened his mouth to protest, "I wasn't – it wasn't – not _hiding_."

Unconvinced, Arthur continued, "If I'm not wrong, you scared yourself, doing that. Healing. And you thought you scared us, too?" He ducked his head to add a serious note to the intense blue of his gaze. "You didn't. It may be, you can't anymore. We know you, Merlin. You've made us your family, like I said in Ealdor, haven't you? What scares me is, you trying to figure this out on your own – let us help you."

Merlin nodded, scuffing his boots a little, and it popped out in spite of him. "I'm sorry."

Arthur snorted. "Listen. I have the idea that our return to Camelot will be… more complicated than we thought. If you can conjure comfortable accommodations for Her Highness tonight, we'll talk more in the morning."

He found he was perfectly happy trusting Arthur to strategize their way through whatever difficulties he anticipated. Hadn't the lord proved worthy of it when they'd set out with less than all the details of their quest, and no part in the decision-making? Hadn't he proved himself worthy of Merlin's trust at the lake? Merlin was relieved, too; he had quite enough to be going on with, figuring magic out.

Arthur nodded his confidence that Merlin could and would do his best. After reaching to turn down one lapel of Merlin's jacket, as if to check for himself that his neck was fine – it was, just a bit sore and sensitive like a sun-burn – he continued to join Gwaine and Leon with the other mounts.

Merlin turned to ask the princess a few pertinent questions as to her needs and preferences – to find that Tristan had woken. The older man lounged on the earth, long legs crossed at the ankle, arms stiff to prop himself up, behind. As Merlin glanced down in surprise to meet his gaze, Tristan – the last of them, who hadn't had much of a chance to react to what Merlin had done, and _on him_ \- sat forward and extended his hand. Startled and uncomprehending, Merlin crouched to take it.

"The way I see it, I'm sworn to him," Tristan said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward Arthur's retreating back. "But now, I owe you my life, too. Whatever it was you did, I'm grateful."

Merlin nodded, speechless with the glow of happiness that expanded in his chest, struggling to keep his grin from splitting his face in half.

Past the princess and across the fire, Percival remarked, "Did that just hurt you to admit, Tristan?"

Tristan growled in response, but it was a surprisingly good-natured sound, and the princess laughed, as Merlin smiled and glowed.

 **A/N: Thank you for all your lovely reviews, it was nice to see a bunch when I got home from vacation! Especially catherine10, Kirsten, FairyGoatMother, and others that I couldn't/didn't respond to in a personal message! Glad you liked the last chapter – hope this one answers some questions and that the rest of the story is satisfactory!**

 **Also, I did get a chance to do some writing while I was gone, so hopefully the next chapter will be up in a few days…**


	17. Leveling

**Chapter 17: Leveling**

Gwen lay back in the warm, aromatic water – conjured, both it and the metal tub - sighing and trying to relax the last of the tension from her muscles. It might help if she could keep her eyes shut.

But every time she tried, she saw Morgana – reaching in disbelief toward the hilt of Gwen's dagger in the center of her chest – falling lifelessly – lying tangled with her dead twin. Gwen's first and only, since the arena and a skinny, bug-eyed, terrified thief pleading too late for mercy from his sovereign.

Was it self-defense? Could she have gotten closer to Morgana and knocked her out to stop the storm of chaos? Was it murder? Did she have the right to judge between right and wrong in such cases, anymore? Or did the actions of the Twins constitute legal action on behalf of the crown, and Gwen was the one in illegal rebellion deserving of death?

To distract herself, she contemplated as much of her surroundings as she could see from the tub.

Thick canvas in a red-tinted earth-brown, rippling gently in the evening breeze but maintaining privacy, arching higher overhead than she could reach, standing. Softly glowing with the light of corner-braziers and comfortable underfoot with thick, _clean_ , moss-colored rugs. A curtain was drawn on her left to divide the tent – what a simple word for so grand a construction – but on the other side was an actual bed, complete with polished oak head- and foot-board, and a feather mattress as wide as it was long. As well as any and all linens she might think to require.

It was amazing. And a bit humbling; she hadn't yet mentioned the sequence of events in Camelot, and she was quite sure Lancelot wouldn't, but she didn't deserve _this_ , anymore.

"My lady?" Arthur's voice, past the screen, at the entrance-flap of the tent.

Gwen sat up a little straighter, the cooling water lapping at her bare shoulders and the rim of the tub. "Yes, I'm here."

"I've brought your clothes." Soft rustling footsteps came closer. "Merlin did those too, actually."

Cleaned with soap and water that was conjured then dismissed, her clothing would be instantly dry and ready for her use. She smiled whimsically to herself. "Isn't it funny," she commented aloud. "The citizen is the one doing laundry."

"Well, if you wanted a good job done of it…" There was humor in his voice. "This is his way of apologizing, I think."

Gwen considered the towel folded on a small side table, close enough to reach – and delayed, not wanting Arthur to excuse himself and leave her to the dark and quiet and haunting solitude of night. "It's incredible, really, that he does so much so easily. Now I see why you wanted him along on your journey – did you have it this comfortable all the time?"

Arthur laughed wryly, a sound that warmed her inside, where the heat of the water couldn't reach to relax tension. "Not hardly, Highness. We were trying to make good time – and not wear out our conjuror, in case of emergencies." She chuckled, and he added, "Although, I feel it's only fair to warn you, he's been experiencing some… difficulties, lately."

"Difficulties?" she asked, interested. Merlin seemed too shy to want to discuss his magic with her; she thought time for familiarity, rather than verbal order, was the only way to change that.

"Sometimes his conjurations last longer than they're supposed to, but sometimes they disappear on their own."

Gwen glanced about the tent again; maybe it was time to get back into her _real_ clothes, if that was the case. She reached for the towel, but paused as the water rippled and sloshed and reminded her – _As water seeks its level, so the world will balance again_ … The tale of the spell on Taliesin's book, and the suggestion, maybe magic had once worked like that…

"And today?" she asked leadingly, grasping the towel and maneuvering her weight over her feet at the bottom of the tub to rise. "That – healing magic? – for your man Tristan? First time for anything like that?"

His gaze was pensively downward as she came around the curtain, her clothing folded on one outstretched hand. "Yes, it's almost…"

He stopped abruptly as his eyes came up, caught, and slowed, over her towel-clad body. She felt the heat of his perusal like the subtle trickle of bathwater over her skin. It was pleasantly and mildly exciting – and then his eyes met hers. He whirled away, nearly losing her clothes to the floor in the process, and his ears were bright red.

"I apologize, my lady, I… I'll just leave your clothing here, and –" He took two steps toward the bed.

"Arthur," she said, more insistently than she'd intended. _I don't want to be alone. Not now… not tonight_. "It's fine. Hold still a minute."

He froze, and she moved to his side to take her things – remembering how she'd done something very like this, alone with him in her chamber, daring him to make a move… Aware of her nearness, he turned his head a few degrees away; she was both disappointed and pleased, and the mix of emotions was perfect, somehow. She finished wiping droplets from her skin, and dropped the towel.

"What about Lancelot?" he said, a trace of hoarseness in his voice sending a gratifying shiver through her.

She was both glad and sorry for the protection of the clothing she put on, as she explained to him, exactly why Lancelot would not mind their time together, no matter how it was spent. Arthur remained thoughtfully quiet, and the embarrassment was gone when she moved to face him and he glanced down at her.

"So the choice is made?"

He was so close. His eyes so alive, intelligent, deep. It mattered to her, so much, what he thought, how he felt – and all so inadvertently, it scared her, and she balked.

"No," he added, settling his arms across his chest and tucking his chin for a look more confidential than confrontational. "There's more. Why the Twins were out here trying to kill us. Why you came with only Lancelot, if you were going to release him to his neighbor's request. What is it? Guinevere?"

She took a step back and sideways, let herself sink down on the bed for support, as she told that story, too. The queen's reaction to Arthur's partnership with Merlin – the accusations against the Twins admitted to by Morgana – the result of Gwen's last interview with her mother…

It was all over, all of it. The quests, the choice, the heir… her life.

Arthur listened quietly, gravely – sympathetically, though he declined her gestured invitation to sit with a single quick shake of his head.

He didn't immediately respond, even when she concluded rather bitterly – nearly forgetting what she'd said and thought of Merlin's magic - "You knew what I thought, didn't you, when you questioned why I set that quest for you. I guess I was wrong. She's never going to allow any changes at all. Taliesin's time of balance isn't here… and maybe never will be."

For a long moment, he let contemplative silence linger. Then, of all things, he reached for the hilt of the sword in his belt and withdrew it slowly – almost reverently. It was beautiful; not a single nick marred the line of the blade, the inlay was flawless – the cross-guard and hilt obviously made for a man.

And her worry and frustration slid slowly away, as he spoke of dragons and their lords, shields and directions, lakes and water-spirits and worth and cost and choices. She couldn't help thinking that _her_ choice didn't involve life and death and imminent loss – though she did rather relate to the price of pride taken in exchange…

And the king's sword. To match and to balance the queen's cup her other suitor had brought, each in ignorance of the other's intentions. Coincidence was nearly impossible to believe in.

"I think you were right," Arthur said quietly "I think the time is now, no matter what the situation looks like at the moment. I think… I think the price I paid, at the lake, was the belief that I was in _control_ of any part of the prophecy. It will happen as it will happen, and all I can do is… my best in the moment."

That moment was silence, so poignant that tears started to her eyes. There was still uncertainty, but beneath, she felt the assurance she'd been looking for when she'd set the quest. It was the difference between floundering in deep water and believing the shore was close – and touching bedrock underfoot.

"This is yours, then," Arthur added, extending the sword – Excalibur, it was named, as she recalled – lengthwise.

She found she had no desire to take it. At all, or just from him – it didn't matter. "No, please, you –" _Keep it,_ was too strange. She amended, "Carry it for me, for now."

He looked at the blade, then nodded – but as he stretched to slide it back into place at his hip, he winced, and her attention shifted.

Since the fight with the Twins and their slaves, Arthur had resisted such attention and all concern from his men, but she was suddenly not so convinced as she had allowed herself to be, at dinner beside the campfire with the others. She said, "You're hurt."

"I'm fine." He settled the blade and opened his mouth again – probably to excuse his departure and leave her alone and she'd never sleep with all the thoughts and worries and feelings she had to contemplate.

"You're not," she told him, rising from the mattress. "And you haven't washed – properly," she added as he began to protest _hands_ and _stream_ and _dinner_. "Come on, the water in the tub isn't terribly dirty, and not completely cooled."

"Guinevere," he said, firmly but not unkindly, "I am not taking off all my clothes for a bath in your tent tonight."

She couldn't stop the smile – or the blush. "Fine, then, leave the trousers on. But wash, and let me see whatever it is that still has you wincing."

Still he tried to protest. She moved between him and the tent entrance, and reached to unbuckle his sword-belt. He said, a gentle warning, "Guinevere."

No matter the fluttering of her heart. She agreed, not the time or place. "It's fine," she told him, rolling the loose belt around the hilt to lay aside. "It doesn't have to be anything."

That seemed to relax him, and it occurred to her, though she was fairly sure she knew him well enough by now to be sure of what he would and wouldn't do, he might not feel quite the same. Though she hadn't any actual authority or way of enforcing it, he might still obey her wishes against his inclinations – and she'd have to be careful not to take advantage of that.

He unbuttoned his tunic and shrugged out of it, unlaced his shirt – and groaned his way out of that.

She caught her breath at the sight of the bruise on the curve of his ribs on the left side, spreading fully the size of her hand with fingers outstretched, deep red in the center fading to purples around the edges, though at least the skin was unbroken. He bent his head to check it himself, gingerly, and seemed a bit surprised at the sight, himself.

"I think I might have landed on a rock," he commented lightly. "When Merlin did… whatever he did."

"Wash," she ordered him, pointing to the screen, while she herself made for the door-flap of the tent.

The other half-dozen men lounged in a loose circle around the dwindling cook-fire – Tristan prone with his head pillowed on his arm, though his eyes were open, Merlin crouched to add a good-sized log, conjured in the moment as she watched, to the flickering coals. As the fire flared briefly and reflected in his eyes, he lifted his head and caught sight of her, and was on his feet instantly. Lancelot, twisting to follow his attention, was next, but Gwen put out her hands to motion the rest to remain in place.

"Please don't," she said. "I just need Merlin for a minute."

The boy-citizen stepped past his fellows and jogged to her – the concern clear on his face as she held the flap aside and the brazier-glow from within illuminated him.

"It's Arthur," she said, and concern gave immediate way to alarm on his expressive face. Knowing herself that the lord's injury wasn't bad, she was oddly warmed to see this young man's care for his – employer? or friend? From the way Arthur spoke –

But Merlin brushed right past her into the tent, manners taking on the rough impatience she'd seen in him when he'd rushed to Tristan bleeding on the ground. "Arthur!"

The lord appeared around the screen wiping his face on a towel, water dripping from his elbows, gleaming from the muscles of his upper body, dampening the trousers belted over his hips. His bent arm only partially hid the bruise, and Merlin fairly pounced on him, moving the elbow, drawing him to a position where the nearest light would fall more fully on the injury.

"It's just a bruise," Arthur said sardonically – but didn't resist the attention one bit, Gwen saw, leaving his arm raised where Merlin had pushed it, though another wince tightened his face briefly.

For his part, Merlin handled Arthur with a possessive sort of familiarity, no hesitation or self-consciousness evident, now – which gave Gwen a small smile. He pressed, slowly and gently, around the bruise, then on Arthur's breastbone, glancing more than once to Arthur's face.

"I think you've cracked one rib, if not two," he said. "I want to use ice for the swelling and pain, and tomorrow if you must ride, I'll bind it with some turmeric. You should sleep propped up and –" He gave one hand an odd, impatient jerk, and a small clay cup appeared in his grasp, brimming with liquid. "Here. For the pain."

Gwen inhaled quickly, surprised once again at the evidence of his power, so disregarded by him.

Arthur's reaction was a grimace of distaste, but he drank it down. "Can't you just – put me back together, like you did for Tristan?"

Merlin's hands dropped as he stiffened, and the clay cup disappeared abruptly from Arthur's hand – unexpectedly, by the way his fingers twitched. Merlin looked at Gwen with a faint shadow of the sick-scared feeling he'd worn after healing Arthur's oldest soldier – then back to Arthur.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what I did, I don't know if I want to try – do you think I even _can_ , again?"

"Guinevere had a thought about that," Arthur said, gesturing – with his right hand. "One of the changes Taliesin prophesied. A balance of magic, as well as other things."

"Balance," Merlin said, meeting her eyes again. And a distant sort of speculation split into a wide cheerful grin that she loved instantly and decided, should always be on his face. "Yes – that's what it feels like – exactly. Though it hasn't achieved it yet, it's back and forth and all over, _changing_ …"

"There, you see," Arthur said to her, somehow stern and teasing at once. "Another sign that now's the time."

"Do you want a tent of your own?" Merlin said to Arthur. "A bed like this, a few extra pillows to prop you up – then I can do the ice, and the herbs –"

"No," Gwen said, as she saw that Arthur was going to protest the need – _again_ – and fight his conjuror who was also, evidently, his acting physician. "He'll stay here, there's plenty of room." They both looked at her and she raised a finger – she could be stern, too – "And not another word about it."

"Yes, my lady." Merlin reacted to her assumption of authority instantly, ducking a bow. Then went immediately to the head of the bed opposite, and conjured a large fluffy pillow - the sight of which sent a sudden wave of weariness crashing through her – between spreading palms, plumping it before setting it in place. Arthur set his jaw like he was going to be stubborn about it; she turned her attention back to Merlin.

"Thank you," she said, seating herself sideways on the feather-filled mattress. "And again, for all this. You are an amazing conjuror." He shot her a twinkly-eyed smile, starting to form another pillow. "Recently," she added deliberately, "I learned that I had a brother, who died when he was small, before I had a chance to know him. I was told, he showed promise in conjuration magic also."

"I'm very sorry, my lady," Merlin said with sincere sympathy, leaving the bed to urge Arthur to approach, pressing him down.

She stayed silent as the younger man knelt to remove Arthur's boots, then lifted the lord's feet to the mattress as Arthur allowed himself to lean carefully back on the pillows, left arm tucked stiffly to his side to minimize movement as he braced himself with his right.

"Please call me Gwen," she said then to Merlin.

Arthur shot her a look like he knew what she was doing – but didn't protest. Merlin's eyebrows rose, and a smile of polite dissent formed on his mouth, though his eyes remained on his work. He conjured ice, a slab of frozen water on the curve of his hand, then passed it into a soft length of cloth in his other.

She went on, "Seeing as I have disinherited myself by disobedience – we are both only citizens, now." Until that was taken from them at a trial declaring them criminal, anyway. Another reason _not_ to return to Camelot, maybe.

Merlin had paused to give her an incredulous look – to turn to Arthur for corroboration. When the lord nodded, Gwen was grateful that the young conjuror accepted the news without questioning further. Arthur flinched as the younger man lay the cloth-wrapped ice to bruised ribs, and spoke breathlessly wry, "She's trying to gather her own family too, maybe – and you've been picked for little brother."

There again that wide grin of perfect cheer – yes, it belonged on Merlin's face.

"If you really want it so, I'll try to remember, Gwen," he told her, and it felt warm and comfortable to hear him say her name, just as nice as when Arthur did, though in a completely different way. "But you can't be disinherited, at least not permanently. You're going to be queen someday – and a damn good one, I'll bet, if you'll pardon my language."

Gwen's eyebrows evidently felt it was their turn to rise, expressing her astonishment. "Why do you think - What makes you say –"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupted – and Gwen noticed that his head had fallen back against the pillows, his eyes half-shut; she guessed maybe his exhaustion had presented itself insistently, also, at rest and with his injury cared for. "Not now. You can go, don't you think? Get some sleep–"

"And we'll talk about it in the morning?" Merlin said, with light humor. "Just chuck that on the floor when you're through with it – at least half of an hour longer, though – it'll dissipate on its own." He stopped a few footsteps into his retreat, reconsidering. "At least it should. I guess it can't really hurt anything if it doesn't, but…"

He hesitated, watching as Gwen climbed more fully onto the bed – carefully, so she didn't jostle Arthur with the movement.

"But, um, I should say… I don't think it's a good idea to… I mean, I recommend _not…_ uh, exerting yourself. Because that's not good for the, um, ribs. If they're cracked – or only just bruised, it isn't good to… raise the heartrate."

He was a very interesting and attractive shade of pink, even in the dim light of surrounding braziers, and she wondered how long he'd ramble around the point he was trying to make – no straightforward physician in evidence, now – if she put on an innocently quizzical expression and let him continue.

"Merlin," Arthur said, summoning the energy for emphasis. "Out."

The young man stumbled a bit on the rugs he'd conjured for her, still glancing back uncertainly, and she took pity on him.

"Don't worry, Merlin," she said. "I understand. I'll take proper care of him."

He grinned in relief and ducked out, leaving them alone.

Arthur said, "He'll be an annoying little brother, I hope you realize."

"I think he's sweet."

He half-opened his eyes, turning his head only to look at her – then held out one arm in clear invitation.

She almost refused. And not only because of Merlin's instructions or her promises. Because she _wanted_ , and it scared her.

Intimacy wasn't a cool intellectual consideration of future possibility, but warm and immediate, flesh and blood – bare, smooth, fascinating flesh, muscle, detail. But so much more – Arthur's description of his parents' relationship and his own desires had made her _think_ , and now she _wanted_ , too. And it scared her, to wonder if such a was a weakness, if it was even a possibility or just a dream, if the reality would be disappointing or if it would slip away in spite of her best efforts…

But if she didn't _try_ , she'd never _have_.

Slowly, carefully, she nestled in beside him, her shoulder tucked beneath his, her cheek pillowed on skin and muscle, her body tentatively curling to touch his, all the way down. One hand on the unbruised side of his ribs – he was very smooth, as she'd once wondered - as she inhaled his scent surreptitiously. He made a sound of pleased contentment, tightening his arm around her and tracing brief and lazy circles on the small of her back with his fingertips. The heat of his body seeped through the thin material of her shirt, warming her as well; the rhythm of his breathing moved her body minutely like the rocking of water-ripples.

Something fluttered like butterflies throughout her chest; trickled downward through belly and thighs like summer rain – frightening initially as a reaction completely beyond her control – but settled, because she liked it. He made no further move, and she relaxed into the comfort of their contact.

After a moment, he said, "Guinevere."

"Mm?" She didn't bother to tilt her head to see his face, or even to open her eyes.

Simply, honestly stated. "I love you."

Infinity stretched out within her, deep like the bedrock below the water of the precarious gulf they floated in. Because she knew it meant more than, he found her attractive or liked the way she made him feel. It was more than loyal devotion to her as princess, even one he'd gotten to know better than just about anyone, ever. It was not even romantic, really, but a truth about respect for her character, delight in her company, a craving for more.

She knew this, felt and understood it, because… "I love you, too."

For a moment, nothing. Then his arm tightened again, and the pillow rustled under his hair as his lips found her forehead.

And she found that sleep was not only possible after all, but deep and serene.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had often felt the exhaustion of conjuration when he'd pushed his limits – most notably when he'd surrendered to the overwhelming need of sleep on the dining table of the tavern's upper room in front of Arthur.

This magic that he'd done for the clash with the Twins, though he _felt_ the magic as an extension of himself – a muscle flexing or a pulse beating – did not wear him out the same way. When he woke to the first bustle of the camp's breakfast, he felt rested sufficiently; the tired sensation was more like the day after unaccustomed exertion – aware of the exercise, but in a way that seemed proud of significant accomplishment.

Gwaine squatted near the fire, the closest of them all to Merlin's bedroll. He gave Merlin an uninhibited grin to see him awake and said, "Those sheepskin pads are still here – you think they're permanent?"

Merlin stretched and sighed. "If the nature of magic itself is changing, your guess is as good as mine."

"You'll still be our expert," Gwaine declared with loyal confidence. "Isn't that right, Lancelot?"

Merlin struggled to sitting as the passing lord paused at the mention of his name. Lancelot seemed quiet and watchful – very much like Leon, but without the comfort of familiarity. Gwaine had been teasing him since last night, trying to figure him out, maybe. Merlin guessed the lord must be very brave to have come along with the princess from the capital, but he couldn't help wondering if the man still expected Guinevere to choose him, or if he hoped for that, at all. It seemed clear to Merlin that the princess had chosen to show favor to Arthur, to get close to him and allow herself to care for him very much – even if it wasn't love yet like he'd seen in the vision shown him by the lady of the lake.

No one had referred to the topic. The previous night around the campfire, either during dinner when the pair had eaten with them, or afterward when Arthur had remained in her tent. That alone had told the soldiers enough, even if Merlin hoped that the sly looks and knowing smiles had no justification in fact, because of Arthur's injured ribs. But he did not know Lancelot well enough to guess if the lord's oblivious composure was because he never guessed the accommodations to be anything but medically-reasoned, or because he didn't care.

"My lord, I couldn't help noticing you walk with a slight limp?" he said, climbing to his feet by degrees. Gwaine reached over to roll his woolly bed-pad, making an impatient noise so Merlin would step off it to allow the action. "I hope I didn't neglect an injury after our fight here, last night?"

"No, of course not," Lancelot said. "It happened a week ago. A dog bite, but my neighbor's grand-niece tended it for me."

"How old was the girl?" Merlin said, trying to be polite in his skepticism. "A bite can become infected easily, maybe I should –"

"There was only bruising, the skin was unbroken," Lancelot reassured him. "She wasn't a little girl – a citizen this year."

"Oh," Merlin said, thinking of a narrow room and a crowd of robed females and the pang of Gaius' death and the worry of facing his own trial was only a dull throb.

"Same age as Merlin, then," Gwaine offered, crushing the padded bedroll between knee and elbow to tie it securely. "Suppose they know each other?"

"Probably not, she's not from the capital city," Lancelot answered, but his smile for Merlin was casual amusement. "Her name is Laney?"

"Oh," Merlin said again, this time an expression of pleased surprise. "I did meet her. She was the only one who was nice to me – she spoke to me while we were waiting and tried to give me some advice." Gwaine made a sound indicating brief interest at the coincidence and turned away to speak to Leon, who was headed for the horses. But Lancelot's face took on a subtle glow of vitality at Merlin's words that caught his attention, and he added, "I'm very glad to know that she passed her citizen-trial also."

Lancelot's smile was small but proud. "She had more trouble than you did, but I'm hopeful she'll recover fully. And that it isn't too long until I see her again."

And that explained, why Lancelot wasn't a bit jealous of Arthur in the princess' tent. He found a lady of his own to focus attention and care on, instead. Merlin was glad to know that, but… why the note of sober concern over seeing her again? Surely Gwen would release Lancelot to Laney – and he found he was glad she had such a kind gentleman, also – as soon as they returned to Camelot, wouldn't she? He could not imagine that Gwen's transgression was as serious as she seemed to believe.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Percival, stationed on lookout, up on the road above the clearing. "Riders approaching, a troop in formation and Watch blue."

Merlin's first instinct was to hide.

To ensure they were all overlooked and could enter Camelot on their own terms until they could – pang of uneasiness – explain what happened to Morgana and Morgause. He regretted the loss of life, and that it had been necessary, but – what else were they to do? stand and let the Twins' slaves slaughter them without reason? Then again, it might be that the approaching troop was something routine, and had nothing to do with any of them. If so, would they be required to confess to the incident? But. The tent could not be missed from the road, the clearing could not provide the men and horses that kind of immediate cover, the horses weren't ready to ride in undetected retreat. A band of men scrambling to avoid them would surely cause the Watch to assume the worst.

He was a citizen, and they had the princess with them.

Merlin looked at Lancelot – by rank lower but by privilege higher – and saw the same stern nobility he'd caught from the lord's expression yesterday during the fight. Clearly Lancelot feared this confrontation – but why? Something Merlin didn't know about the situation in Camelot, and Gwen's standing with the queen? Off-balance, he glanced to Leon and Gwaine, both serious about the reckoning at hand, but looking now to him for orders.

"I'll tell Arthur and Her Highness?" Gwaine suggested, nearly reading his mind. Merlin nodded relief and started toward the road.

 _Face this like a man, at least._

Lancelot followed him, and Leon, as Merlin leaped up the slight hill to the road. Percival joined them slowly, his eyes still fixed on the approaching troop, and for several long moments, they all watched without saying anything. Merlin's heart-rate rose with the sound of hoof-beats, and he glanced back once, wishing Arthur would hurry…

"Something odd," Leon remarked.

"What?" Merlin asked.

"They're all women. All officers. That's highly unusual for a Watch patrol… unless they're on a special mission."

"It's not my place to say," Lancelot spoke hurriedly, "but the princess had a significant disagreement with the queen several days ago and did not leave the city on good terms or with Her Majesty's knowledge or permission."

"So she might send women to bring the princess back?" Percival guessed, in his slowly thoughtful way. "Because Her Highness might be less inclined to resist or overawe other females?"

There was no more time for deliberation; the horsewomen were almost on them. Merlin said, "What's the rank of the officer in command?"

Leon and Percival spoke at once. "Captain."

The female in the lead, tight yellow curls bouncing on her shoulders – a feature that looked at odds with a broad ruddy face – mid-fifties if Merlin had to guess an age, gave a series of hand signals that he could not interpret, but had both soldier and former soldier next to Merlin shifting uneasily; with an effort, he did _not_ look sideways at them. The result was a re-formation of the mounted patrol, trotting now only twenty-five or thirty paces distant, from four abreast and five deep, to eight abreast and a shortened third line.

More worrisome were the crossbows – not raised to aim and shoot, but held ready to do so at a second's notice. None of his companions had drawn sword, he'd have heard it, but Merlin hoped they hadn't even put hand to hilt as a provocative defense.

"Good morning, Captain." He spoke first, the moment she was in reasonable earshot, trying to project more confidence than he felt.

She raised an official hand, and the other riders of the patrol reined in. "Identify yourselves, and your purpose here."

"My name is Merlin, I am a citizen of Camelot," he declared – and noted no significant surprise or disbelief among the other women, as if they already knew or expected him - though as officers, they would remain professional and controlled despite the unexpected. Gesturing to his companions in turn, he held back names to say, "This man is a freedman and a lord by rank; this man is a soldier serving under another member of our company; this man is my –" only slight hesitation, but Percival have never indicated that he was offended by the fact – "slave. We are returning to Camelot after a week's journey, and stopped here to camp for the night."

Probably better if he didn't volunteer information about the Twins, at this point.

"Bring forth all the members of your camp if you please," the captain said, unsmiling. "Slowly and quietly."

Merlin turned and saw, through the trees and down to the clearing, the tent-flap moved aside to allow passage for Arthur, fully dressed down to boots and buttoned tunic, with Gwaine on his heels. From beyond the bulk of the grand tent he'd conjured for the princess, Tristan came into view, and lengthened his stride to catch up with the two.

"May we ask what your business is, Captain?" Lancelot dared. Merlin was surprised he'd spoken, til he realized that Gwen might not want them to reveal her presence, though he believed she wouldn't want them to fight these officers of the Watch just so she could continue outside her mother's control…

The captain didn't respond.

Merlin said, "The man in the lead is Lord Arthur of Dubois, my –" friend? employer? Merlin settled on a better word for the situation, "partner. The dark-haired man is my other slave, the third in the rear another soldier under Arthur's command." The captain took her attention from the three approaching to give Merlin a sharp look which he didn't understand, and attempted to amend by adding, "By… his mother's authority."

Arthur was wearing a studiously neutral expression when he ascended to the road, and it made Merlin feel like he'd mishandled the situation somehow, and he ought to apologize – more so than if Arthur criticized openly and sarcastically.

"What's the matter, Captain?" Arthur asked, with an air of command and authority so natural Merlin didn't even notice it anymore – except when it was deliberately and respectfully subdued.

"Is this all your company?" the captain demanded.

"You see every man we have," Arthur said, with deceptive honesty.

"And where is Her Highness the princess Guinevere?" the captain said brusquely.

Merlin might have been the only one to look to Arthur because of the trepidation he felt; the other men seemed more adept at covering reactions, and he hoped if his was inappropriate, it might be overlooked.

"What makes you think I know that, ma'am?" Arthur said mildly.

"Her Highness' last known companion was Lord Lancelot," the captain responded, pointing at the correct man among them without looking away from Arthur.

"Perhaps you should be asking him, then," Arthur suggested. Not as if he wished to shift the weight of questioning to the other lord, but as a challenge to the mounted female officer facing him. "Perhaps you should be asking how reliable your information is, when you are sent out after the crown princess in such numbers."

"It is for her own safety," the captain objected. "She's shown erratic and unpredictable behavior, an inability to make rational decisions. An illness that has affected her brain, the physician said, though hopefully temporary."

"Which physician?" A new voice rang out from behind.

Though neither Merlin nor Arthur moved, the other men of their party shuffled respectfully aside to allow the princess to join them. She was neither tall nor statuesque, her clothing rough and practical, her hair in a simple braid and no cosmetics accenting the natural beauty of her features, but Gwen radiated confidence and authority.

"Captain Cady," she added, when the other woman didn't immediately answer. "Dismount and face me afoot, if you please, unless my rank or privilege has been officially revoked without my knowledge."

There was a hint of a question there, Merlin noticed, and realized that the fear Gwen had spoken of the previous night had not been exaggerated. What _had_ happened in Camelot? But though no order was given to disarm the crossbows, the captain swung down from her saddle, reins sliding through her gloves as she faced the princess with a polite bow of her head.

"Which physician?" Gwen repeated. "Has someone been bribed to make such a claim, because it is certain I saw no medical professional in the palace after my last conversation with the queen. Or were you only _told_ , such is the diagnosis."

"I have my orders, Highness," the captain said, still not answering Gwen's questions – but not without sympathy, either.

"And those are?" The tone of Gwen's voice suggested hands on her hips, though she showed no outward sign of displeasure, other than raising her chin slightly.

It reminded Merlin of the arch expression Gwen had returned to Arthur's daring wink, in his vision, and it served to calm him. He believed the lady of the lake had shown him a prophetic view of the future, one that would come to pass somehow, sometime. In spite of _this_ , whatever this was.

"I am to arrest, specifically – Lord Arthur, Lord Lancelot, and the citizen Merlin," the captain said neutrally, dark intelligent eyes resting on each of those she named. "As well as anyone traveling in their company."

Arrest? And no mention made of the Twins?

"But what did we do wrong?" Bewildered, Merlin spoke without thinking.

"He means, captain, what are the charges?" Arthur corrected, with a note of irony that felt supportive to Merlin.

"Treason."

The world seemed to stop for a moment. Such a crime carried an immediate death sentence that would probably include all four of their companions. Why? The queen couldn't possibly know yet that Arthur was bringing Bruta's sword; they hadn't declared any intention to anyone, beyond presenting the symbolic artifact to the princess, for her choice.

Before they'd even reached Ealdor, Arthur had told them he believed, the princess had set the quest because she read Taliesin, and wondered if his time of prophesied change and equality was upon them, and sought a definite sign to follow. If she had said something to her mother, and the queen had misunderstood…

"And regarding myself?" Gwen's chin rose a fraction further.

"We are to take you into custody and escort you safely to the queen's presence, nothing more," the captain said.

"What will become of my companions?" Gwen said. "If I am confined to my quarters because of this fabricated illness, with none to obey my commands without permission from the queen who accuses them, there will be no one to see that they receive a fair trial with an impartial judge. It may be that their headless bodies are tossed from the prison less than an hour after they have entered it. And who would be there to protest or protect them?"

"Your Highness," the captain said, respectfully reproachful. "They will each be treated in accordance with their social status –"

Which meant, Merlin knew, that only he deserved a trial; Lancelot and Arthur might be granted hearings for themselves, petitions submitted from their mothers, but the other four had no rights whatsoever.

"Unless," Captain Cady added, "you accuse the queen your mother of intentional injustice – I am sure it will not be so."

" _I_ am not sure," Gwen said. And Merlin found he was not sure anymore, either. Arthur merely watched the princess, one corner of his mouth tilted slightly. "And I accuse Her Majesty of far worse. Conspiring to the murder of innocents and these false charges to cover those crimes. In fact –"

She paused only fractionally, but Arthur spoke her name in swift warning and disapproval. "Guinevere…"

The princess ignored him, raising her voice so the entire troop of female officers could hear. "Since I retain my earned rights and status, I hereby challenge Her Majesty Nimueh as one citizen to another, to meet me in trial by combat, to prove once and for all before the people of Camelot, which of us speaks the truth on this matter."

Stunned silence. Merlin couldn't repress a shudder; he thought he'd rather face the entire Watch-prison's population or all five dragons enraged, than the queen in single combat in the arena before _everyone_.

Probably each officer felt the same way – they stared at the princess and one another dumbfounded, and more than one jaw dropped right open, professional control notwithstanding. The captain herself appeared speechless.

"My lady," Arthur said, quiet and serious and sad. "What have you done?"

 **A/N: Maybe two or three chapters left…**

FairyGoatMother: Thank you for your review, I'm glad you liked the chapter. I quite enjoy writing young!Merlin myself. For this story, he's not too much younger than in-series, but he's more on his own since Gaius died at the beginning… and his magic being known and targeted pretty much immediately. But yay! for friends (and especially Arthur, we all know) that are supportive! I think half of Gaius' nervousness in-series was for if Merlin got caught, not just b/c the magic itself was surprising…


	18. Counter-Offers

**Chapter 18: Counter-Offers**

Percival wasn't sure he'd ever respected a woman, more than he did the princess.

He'd known officers who were generous and considerate of the soldiers under their command, even confident enough to be relaxed and humorous – bordering on respectful. His mother, he'd be eternally grateful to, for doing all she could to see that he had the best life possible.

It wasn't completely clear to him, what had transpired in Camelot – the reasons the princess had left, or had come to them. Charges of murder against the queen herself? Charges of treason against Merlin and Arthur, before they even had a chance to reveal the king's sword, evidently drawn according to prophecy – and how could that be _wrong_? It was clear that the citizens Morgana and Morgause had positioned themselves and their slaves – he wasn't embarrassed to admit to sympathy or regret for their fate – to kill them, _unlawfully_ , he believed.

But Princess Guinevere.

She'd crouched at their smoky campfire and shared their rough fare and their conversation, without a complaint. Without a shred of self-consciousness or regal reserve. She'd crouched over Tristan sleeping, and he'd seen her more than once check him, or arrange some detail of comfort. She'd touched him without hesitation, she'd touched Arthur – she'd actually hugged Merlin after he'd conjured that enormous tent for her.

Breath of relief that it hadn't disappeared in the middle of the night. Especially since she'd kept Arthur – _cracked ribs_ , Merlin had said, when he re-emerged.

Percival craned to see around Leon, who rode beside Merlin behind Arthur and the princess. Their pace was slow – the troop of female officers spaced around them was keeping a sharp eye on them; were they under arrest? that wasn't clear to him either - but Arthur still rode a little stiff in the saddle, a sure sign of lingering pain.

Back to Camelot. Where – he understood all too well – the princess would meet the queen in the arena. He wondered if the rules were much different from citizen-trials.

The princess was evidently watching Arthur also; she raised her voice to call something to the captain in the lead, but her body was angled solicitously toward Arthur beside her. The captain twisted in the saddle; Arthur shook his head in saying something to Guinevere, and she reined her mount in with an abrupt imperiousness.

A look of exasperation flitted briefly over the captain's face, but she signaled for the other officers under her to half for a quarter-hour's rest.

Percival could see the tops of the palace towers in Camelot, in the distance down the road and through the farmland, as he dismounted. From the corner of his eye he caught Merlin's gesture toward him, and reached without looking to hold his master's reins, as Leon turned back to speak to Lord Lancelot, behind them. Merlin slipped between Arthur and the princess to press carefully on the lord's ribs – to check that they were still in place, Percival assumed.

"I am fine to ride," Arthur stated. His voice was pitched too low to be overheard by any of their escort, but there was a tone that caught Percival's attention, as well as the two closer to the lord. "You don't have to do this – return to Camelot, rather than _run_ – for me."

At the word run, Percival's gaze and perception immediately switched to gauge the odds for each of them to mount, wheel, and gallop beyond bowshot alive - the countryside for direction and grouping and ease of escape. He wouldn't bet much, he thought cynically, but it would be bad luck to bet _against_ them.

"I'm not doing it for you," the princess responded absently; her gaze was focused toward Camelot. "I mean, not just you. All of you. All of us."

"In that case…" Merlin straightened, evidently satisfied with his brief inspection of Arthur's injury, and moved into her field of vision. "Might I offer myself as your champion."

Sure that he'd heard wrong, Percival side-stepped, shoving his gelding's solid shoulder a little, to see his boy-master's face clearly. He realized that several of the Watch officers had overheard that offer, also – more than one seemed surprised at such a spontaneous show of loyalty from a male, even the one who was a citizen.

Merlin was completely serious, that Percival could see in an instant. He also looked enormously apprehensive – and who could blame him? The queen had the reputation of being the most powerful conjuror in the kingdom since he could remember. The thought of stepping into the arena with her would steal color from anyone's face.

And the princess looked at him. From behind, Percival couldn't see her expression; he didn't know whether to hope that she'd accept, or not. He had no idea of the princess' skill in magic, but if she lost – even if the queen did not prove ruthless enough to kill her own daughter – there was a good chance Nimueh would proceed with the charges against the rest of them. Trials and executions.

"No, Merlin," the princess said. Her voice was kind, but sad; she reached out to squeeze his arm just above the elbow. "But thank you."

He nodded, and his lips quirked just slightly. "You know I still believe, you will be a great queen someday, with all my heart?"

"You believe I will win, in the arena?" she said, self-deprecatingly amused.

Before Merlin could respond, Arthur shifted a step forward, til his body was brushing hers, behind and beside. "Perhaps I should be your champion, my lady," he murmured.

That, did not surprised Percival at all, but the princess' head snapped around and her face showed shock even in profile. "You have even less chance than I, of besting the queen," she said. "You'd be allowed no weapon."

Barely audible. "I don't actually _need_ … a weapon."

That also, did not surprise Percival. He'd killed with his bare hands also, twice at least, and ended several more fights that were not fatal, unarmed. Arthur would know how – but the opponent they were discussing was Guinevere's _mother_.

"Close enough to use your hands," the princess said softly, "is too close to _hers_. She would kill you, Arthur. She'd be only too happy to kill you." And a defeat for one of them was a defeat for all of them.

Merlin looked grim, Percival noticed, as if he privately resolved, right that minute, to prevent Arthur's death by any means, legal or not.

"You have no confidence in my abilities as a trained and skilled fighter?" There was a cynical half-smile on Arthur's face.

She moved her hand to touch his side. "You're already hurt."

The lord took a deep, careful breath, lifting his face toward Camelot. "But. With me dead and this sword in her possession, maybe she'd be willing to allow you to escape. You're her daughter, after all. And maybe then in years to come –"

The princess reached from his side to his mouth, covering whatever he'd been about to say. "Not without you." Her black braid switched over her back as she shook her head. "Not without you. I'm her daughter, like you said – maybe in an arena full of our people, she'll be more willing to listen and negotiate."

Percival lifted his head and looked around, to realize that every single officer in sight had been audience to that conversation. And none looked unaffected – though most wore expressions of uncertainty rather than sympathy.

"Mount up," the captain called into the moment of silence. "If it please Your Highness," she added, with a deference that seemed entirely genuine to Percival. "It's time we were on our way again."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _A fat lot of nonsense_ , his father had said. _Destiny does as it will, through our knowledge or ignorance, through our action or hesitation…_

Did that mean intentions didn't matter? Or did it mean, intentions were all that mattered?

Merlin understood why folks said, _blind_ faith. He thought he might have a slim chance, defending himself against the queen in the arena, getting lucky with a sudden inspiration to make her surrender – except, surrendering would mean that she admitted guilt to the charges Guinevere had stated. Murder, seemed to be the worst of it.

He could not remember anything in the copy of the law code he'd been handed with his citizen's papers, about what was done if the _queen_ was guilty of the crime. Somehow he didn't think a _fine_ was going to be enough.

Somehow he didn't think Nimueh was the type to abdicate.

And that brought him back to blind faith in prophecy. Because if Gwen couldn't talk her mother into an understanding, he could not see her fighting and winning against her mother. Then again, could a mother kill her daughter?

 _Conspiring to the murder of innocents and laying false charges to cover those crimes…_

His thoughts spiraled along the same unanswerable questions, more quickly the closer they got to Camelot's walls. The gates were open, the streets, busy at noon, visible beyond the riders that preceded him – Gwen and Arthur, a handful of officers, the captain.

Who raised a bent arm and a clasped fist in an inexplicable signal to halt. Merlin glanced around – the others seemed as puzzled as he felt – but Leon beside him raised red-gold eyebrows slightly in surprise and recognition.

"Oh."

Merlin leaned to follow his gaze between the other riders, to see the woman afoot speaking to the captain. She had light hair, short or pinned up, a delicate willowy build dressed in dark trousers, knee-high black boots, a white shirt under a military-blue tunic with a skirt that flared nearly to her knees and an impressive double row of silver buttons up the front.

"What?" he said.

"It's the commander," Leon responded, not looking away from the stranger. "Lady Ygraine of Dubois."

" _Oh_ ," Merlin said in his turn. _Arthur's mother_.

Guinevere handed her reins to Arthur and dismounted, striding between two officers of their escort to join the two older women. They spoke, with gestures and glances for the rest of the company, and Merlin wished – he was probably not alone in that – that he could hear what they were saying.

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" he asked Leon in a low tone.

Leon answered the same way, his eyes still on the woman who was his superior also. "I don't know…"

And then the other mounted officers were shifting their horses to allow Captain Cady through. "Dismount," she ordered them, looking first at Arthur, then Merlin, then the others behind them – Leon, Percival and Lancelot, Gwaine and Tristan in the rear. "The commander is claiming custody – you will remain in the gatehouse cell. For the time being."

If Merlin had to guess, he would have said that the captain was relieved to turn them over – what were they? prisoners? – to Commander Ygraine. He swung his leg over the back of the saddle and relinquished the reins to one of the officers who requested them with a snap of her fingers and an open palm. She took Leon's as well, and Merlin shuffled uncertainly, trying to stay out of the way.

He heard the commander say – the first she'd addressed her son – "Are these _my_ horses?"

"Yes, ma'am," Arthur said only, and Ygraine signaled the handlers – some wish of hers in regards to the mounts Arthur had procured for their journey, that Merlin couldn't read.

Two-thirds of the Watch patrol took charge of all of the horses and headed down the street – presumably toward the royal stables. As he watched, Captain Cady and two flanking officers broke away from the group, and he assumed that they would be going to report to Her Majesty directly.

"Inside," he was told, prodded by another officer.

The gatehouse was built into the thickness of the city wall. There was one main chamber with an eating table-and-chairs, a tall closed cabinet in a far corner. Three doors interrupted the wall on the right, but the stone to the left curved slightly with the city's outer wall, and was three-paces-width offset by a floor-to-ceiling iron grate that formed an empty holding cell.

An officer he didn't recognize – on-duty at the gate, then, rather than part of their escort – pulled a section of the grate open with a squeal of protesting metal. Arthur and Leon were in front of him and entered with an easy self-assurance he didn't feel – he ducked to the back corner on the left and watched Lancelot uncomfortable, Tristan irritated, and Percival resigned. Gwaine seemed amused – to the point of flashing a grin at Merlin as if to remind him of where their very first meeting had taken place. Merlin managed to curl one corner of his mouth in wry response, and the officer swung the grate closed – squeal- _clang_ – and locked it with a large key on a ring, with which she retreated to the middle door on the opposite wall, disappearing through it.

Guinevere, however, remained outside the cell. Not under arrest, he supposed, but restrained by her honor to follow through on the challenge she'd issued.

Commander Ygraine turned to order one of the officers – in the military blue subtly different from the Watch uniform, one of her own juniors from Dubois, maybe? – "Bring us a pitcher of fresh water, and then I'm sure Her Highness would appreciate her privacy."

"Yes, ma'am."

The outer door closed behind the junior officer, leaving them alone and in relative quiet – city noise was muted, and for another moment no one spoke.

Up close Merlin could see that the commander's fine light hair was pinned up at the back of her head, a light blonde color that he felt sure would fade gracefully to white someday. At the present, the only indication of her age was the faint lines by her eyes and her mouth – but _willowy_ _and_ _delicate_ was an impression that gave way to _wiry and tough._

"So," she said to the princess. "You've challenged the queen to trial by combat. And the lives of these traitors hang in the balance. Don't you think it would be better to speak to Her Majesty and ask forgiveness and come to an agreement?"

Merlin's heart lurched, but he couldn't look away from the pair of females outside the cell, even to meet Leon's gaze and share the knowledge, _it's bad_. In memory he heard Arthur claim, _She has complete confidence in my choices_ , and wondered what the queen had told the commander. Had she changed her mind about that confidence?

At the front of the cell, Arthur said, "Commander –"

"Quiet," Ygraine ordered, pointing at him without looking. Arthur remained obediently silent; Merlin drifted a few steps closer to the front of the cell to see that his jaw was tight.

"I tried to speak with Her Majesty," Guinevere said evenly, "five days ago. I told her that I had verbal confirmation from certain citizens that they not only killed young boys who showed potential in conjuration, but also plotted to ruin our one male citizen."

Merlin put one hand against the wall for support, as every man looked at him save Arthur. They'd guessed that Morgana and Morgause had lured him with a loan that was never honest or generous, and he assumed Arthur would try to explain the attack in the clearing, to the princess, but… _she'd known_.

"Her response to me made plain that these acts were done not only with her knowledge, but with her encouragement, that no male should earn or could keep the rights of citizenship, no matter his strength or skill in magic. I refused to agree with her, and was confined to quarters til I produced an heir for Nimueh that might prove more obedient."

Silence.

Merlin was quite sorry that he hadn't fully believed the princess when she spoken of the gravity of the issue she'd left behind her with her mother – her sovereign – in Camelot. The challenge was brave and bold – as it was, the matter could not and would not be heard by any other court. Not with Merlin accused of treason and Guinevere labeled with a mental medical condition. Truth did not matter so much as perception, and who had the power or authority to control that.

"I received your message," Commander Ygraine remarked – and though she stood facing the princess, Merlin was quite certain she was well aware of her male audience, and _wondered_. "Regarding the quest, and my son's prolonged absence from his post in Dubois. Days later, I received messages from Lord Arthur, and from Queen Nimueh, both of which were very interesting. And contradictory."

"Commander," Arthur said again, his tone a mix of warning and plea.

Ygraine turned her head to shoot a glare at him that Merlin recognized from Arthur's masculine version; it was almost amusing to see Arthur drop his gaze immediately to the floor, chastened by his superior for the interruption – but not happy about it.

The junior military officer slipped back in to deposit the silver pitcher and two goblets on the table. Seeming aware of the tension in the silence, she excused herself with a murmur and was gone again in a moment.

"I am given to understand," Ygraine continued, pouring the water into both goblets and offering one to Guinevere with a properly respectful inclination of her head. "That Lord Lancelot may be freed upon payment of a fine by his mother and a loss of his freedom to leave her estate. Ever again."

"That won't do," Guinevere said, immediately and firmly.

In the cell, Lancelot shifted his weight, and Merlin also thought of Laney.

"Hear me out," Ygraine said mildly, resting one hip sideways on the battered but sturdy guardroom table. "Your accusations and slander are to be forgiven also, if you undergo a course of treatment, as being due in large part to the influence and persuasion of Lord Arthur. Your mother told me –" the commander spoke over many protests; even Merlin had made a sound of surprised dissent – "she believes you have fallen in love." Her tone could not have been more mocking.

The princess set her cup down on the table with emphatic firmness. Her dark eyes snapped and her lips were thin.

"That may be the only thing she is right about," Guinevere said, boldly but softly. "But I thought… _you_ , would understand that. I may be in love, but that doesn't mean I stop thinking, or that I put my own interests above those of my people."

"Well said, and I agree," Ygraine responded, seeming oblivious to the intensity of her son's gaze from the cell; Merlin could feel it even a couple of paces to Arthur's side. "But is it best for the people, that the ruler and the heir, are at such blatant opposition? Concede her point now, and you may yet have the chance to regain influence –"

"How?" Guinevere very nearly lost control of her tone, as it rose half an octave. "Do you really believe I can stay in my room for a week and swallow whatever medicine they concoct to give me, and repeat the tenets she wants me to, and that's it?"

Ygraine held up one finger in request; Merlin couldn't see whatever expression was directed at Guinevere, but the commander's countenance was still serene when she turned to the cell – to her son standing just inside the grate-door, the two soldiers she might recognize to one side, the two slaves she wouldn't, on the other.

"As for you," she said to Arthur; Merlin noticed he was almost a full head taller than his mother, "you may be granted the same punishment as Lancelot – loss of title and freedom, confined to the garrison walls of Dubois. With one difference. You are to be publicly flogged for your attempt to seduce and subvert the princess."

Merlin resolved to do his utmost – whatever that might be – to see that no whip ever touched Arthur's skin, and wondered what Ygraine was _doing_. Did she really think that such a punishment was worth accepting the queen's offer? Had she met them at the gate as Nimueh's spokesperson, to persuade them – to persuade Guinevere – to withdraw the challenge?

"And why," Arthur's voice was quiet in a dangerous way; maybe he wondered as well, "am I to be given such – _mercy_ – for the charge of treason? When there is no evidence behind the word, no actions, no words, no truth."

"Because you," Ygraine said, "have evidently been subverted as well. Manipulated, and deceived."

"What?" That was the princess. Arthur said nothing, staring through the cell-grate at his mother. Merlin felt cold.

"By him," Ygraine concluded, pointing at Merlin.

As she sidestepped to face him, Arthur turned as well, and his face was a narrow-eyed mask. Merlin couldn't bear to look at him, and turned instead to study the commander, who wore a strange little smile.

"He paid your debt," Ygraine said, and named the sum. "Isn't that surprising, unusual, unexpected? How did you convince him? Do you think you're worth that?"

"No," Merlin said honestly, glad that shock – or training – was keeping the others silent. "No, I'm not."

"You told me, life is priceless, and gold should not be mentioned in the same sentence," Arthur said to him reproachfully. "Commander. I watched this man enter the arena, and spare his opponents. He took a loan to go into business as a physician. And the _Twins_ -" he shifted half a step closer, in his intensity – "manufactured his failure, to oppress him into slavery, as Guinevere just told you. That is why I bought his debt – and he has repaid it, many times over in my opinion, protecting all of us that the quest might succeed and we all return safely. Saving my life."

Ygraine had not looked away from Merlin; her smile quirked still further. "Then perhaps he will have no problem escaping custody with his slaves and your two soldiers, evading capture til they're past the border."

"What?" Merlin said confusedly.

"Because these other four," Ygraine went on, turning back to her son, "will face execution, along with young Merlin, no matter what."

Arthur's head went up fractionally, as if she'd just answered an unspoken question. "The queen doesn't want him made a slave as an example, anymore?"

"She will not leave him able to turn his magic against her, any day," Ygraine said. "And for every possible daughter strong in magic he might sire upon Camelot's richest and most powerful citizens, there is an equal likelihood that he will sire sorcerers."

Merlin blinked, sure that this was a nightmare, somehow, and he'd wake to Gwaine's grin and Lancelot passing by… Arthur turned to him. "Don't worry," he said, in the illogical way he had of ordering emotions, "It won't come to execution for anyone."

"Honestly," Ygraine said with a shrug, turning back to Guinevere, who held her hands in fists at her sides, "I don't see that you're going to get better than that, from Nimueh. I was at your citizen-trial, Your Highness, and all due respect, you are no match for her."

"I know," Gwen said. "But I cannot back down. Not now."

"What makes you think –" Ygraine started, but the princess cut her off.

"Arthur. Show her the sword."

It was the only weapon that remained to them, as of course Merlin was forbidden – by the captain, by Arthur, by his own common sense – from conjuring any, for his companions. But no one had even mentioned taking Excalibur from Arthur's side. He took a step back and drew it – then slid it through one of the openings in the grate, letting it fall horizontal on his left palm in display and offering.

"Bruta's sword," Arthur said. "Excalibur. As Taliesin prophesied. We met the dragons and their lords, and one, for love of his son Merlin –" Ygraine turned her gaze, wide blue eyes a shade lighter than Arthur's, momentarily from the blade to Merlin, before looking back at her son – "directed us to a hidden valley and a lake. Where Merlin met with a naiad who presented us with a chance to draw the king's sword."

"And you did," Ygraine breathed. She reached to pass one hand along the length of the elegant blade, not quite touching it, and her hand trembled. "Oh, lords, Arthur. I never thought… I never meant… When I told you that story about Taliesin and his book, I only intended you to learn the patience of faith, not… not…"

"Lancelot's quest brought me Blythewin's cup," Guinevere said as she joined them, and she'd calmed, too. "So you see, the time is now. I cannot back down from this challenge."

Ygraine nodded, but not as if she was surprised, or disappointed. Turning, she dared touch the princess, cupping Guinevere's round brown cheek in her pale hand.

"Then I shall see that you get your fair chance," she promised. Arthur pulled the sword back into the cell and sheathed it; Ygraine twined her arms into the cell and Arthur leaned into the grate to allow the awkward embrace. The commander whispered something; Merlin caught the word _proud_ , before Ygraine released her son and turned to Merlin.

And that smile, he recognized as the one Arthur had worn when testing Merlin's reaction to the suggestion that he'd plan a coup – Ygraine had simply prepared them for the lies Nimueh had spread and the deal she offered. He remembered that Ygraine and Nimueh were cousins; he couldn't begin to guess at their dynamic.

"As for you, young sir," she added. And without the pretense toward cruel severity, he thought he might quite like to know her after all, as he'd come to understand and befriend her son. "I have rarely met anyone who is so much more than appearances claim… I look forward to getting to know you better."

Merlin found a smile was not difficult, realizing that the commander was an ally, after all. "My pleasure, ma'am."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The Watch building. Adjacent wing to the Citizen's Center – an imposing edifice of solid sandstone, barracks and prison - and acting as a private entrance for the arena.

Gwen followed Commander Ygraine down a certain innocuous hallway she'd traveled once before in her life, and would never forget. The footsteps of the men behind her echoed in marching cadence, blending with the escorting officers behind them; they reached an intersection and she turned.

Arthur was closest, but she looked past him at Merlin – seeing recognition and memory in his eyes, as well. This corridor led to a certain small waiting room – and thence to the arena.

As she held Merlin's deep blue gaze, his inexplicable confidence began to fill her – from the corner of her eye she could see Arthur glance from her to his younger friend, and shift back, compassionate comprehension of what they shared in the moment. Merlin stepped past him and took Gwen in his arms – something which would not have been possible just one week ago – holding her so tightly she _felt_ the word Arthur had used. _Brother_. Family. Love.

She squeezed him back, inhaling and exhaling once, before she released him.

"The offer still stands," he said lightly, and she couldn't hold back her smile, though she shook her head.

Arthur reached past Merlin to claim her hand, and brought it to his lips between both of his. "Is the kingdom worth your life?" he said softly, and she was surprised to see tears shining in his eyes. _Guinevere… I love you_. That was all the strength she needed.

"Yes," she said. "And so is the truth."

"I'm not sure I can say the same," he admitted. She leaned against him briefly, trying to memorize the feel of his muscle-hard body, his sword-callused hands, every feature of his face.

"Highness," Ygraine said behind her, a reminder and a warning.

She pulled away reluctantly, bidding the rest a farewell with a glance, as they were herded down the intersection hall – one which led to the stands in the arena. There was encouragement in their faces, and _good luck_ – no resentment that their lives were in her hands, no doubt shown to her, but the solidarity of trust. Gwen wasn't sure whether she was glad or nervous, at the thought that these men would be watching her face her mother as opponent.

And yet, if Taliesin's time for balance was here, were they not as safe as could be, then? _Royal and slave, healer and killer, wild and tame…_

"Listen for us, we'll be cheering for you." Gwen glanced back to see that Merlin and Arthur still flanked the hall, watching her go – but it was the long-haired slave with the dashing grin, standing between them, who'd spoken. "And I bet we won't be the only ones."

Surprised by a chuckle, she turned and lengthened her stride to keep up with Ygraine, feeling lighter for his teasing optimism, and the support of the other two.

"It's very strange, isn't it," she said to the older woman. "When their loyalty and respect is given voluntarily, it means so much more and is far more _sure_ , than anything we can force with our magic or our laws."

"Hm." Ygraine gave her a wry sideways look. "Are you quite sure you know what you're getting into, falling in love with him."

She had no idea what lay in store for any of them, beyond today – but here was the woman who'd borne and raised the man she loved. Gwen grinned. "Probably not."

Ygraine chuckled. "Then again, he's not half as stubborn as his father…"

They reached the door, and Ygraine let them into the ready-room, where the attendant waited, wide-eyed and nervous herself at the unprecedented trial-by-combat scheduled for mid-afternoon. Gwen was thankful yet again for Ygraine's steadying presence – calm and focused.

"I made sure the match was properly declared," the commander said, nudging Gwen into a position with her arms out and her feet apart. "So you'll have your forum to proclaim the truth to all of Camelot – but so will your opponent. I believe Captain Cady is performing this service for Her Majesty as we speak…" Ygraine's strong thin fingers moved gently but deliberately over Gwen's body, head to toe. "For challenge-trials, the participants are allowed to retain their clothing, as power of conjuration is not the matter to be proven, but each is searched so as to enter the arena unarmed. Remember to keep your hands out and up, to show your witnesses that you haven't begun to conjure, til the signal is given. You will have one last chance to settle your differences."

Honestly, that was her best hope. Even now, facing the last door, Gwen couldn't begin to imagine a strategy that had her physically fighting, her mother. Perhaps a sword, if Nimueh would allow her the time and attention to conjure one, then a duel…

Ygraine pulled Gwen's arms down and glanced over her shoulder at the attendant, who nodded, her hand on the door to the arena.

"Are you ready?"

She couldn't help thinking of Tristan's words of farewell… Then again, he'd been saved by a miracle, hadn't he.

Gwen lifted her chin, and gave a single decisive nod.

And for the second time in her life, she watched that thick wooden door open to the sand-bright arena. Ygraine adopted a gait of military precision and command, and Gwen followed her.

The roar of the crowd was familiar. She couldn't tell whether the noise supported her or her mother; she couldn't possibly hear the encouragement of her men in the midst of it, and didn't try to look around for them. Nimueh was waiting in the center of the arena already, Captain Cady in deferential attendance. The queen wore a sleeveless form-fitting dress of burgundy silk; her feet were bare and her dark hair was done in two dozen slender bead-ended braids. By comparison Gwen felt sweaty and dumpy and frazzled, young and ungrateful and no longer entirely certain she was right.

Ygraine made a respectful bow, and stepped aside, facing Captain Cady to form a brief square – until Nimueh swayed forward and Gwen moved to meet her, stopping when her mother stopped, at about five paces apart.

Slowly – but also very quickly – the arena fell silent. Every observer – Gwen wondered what percentage of the city's population had dropped what they were doing to come, upon hearing of the imminent challenge – breathless to hear their final conversation.

"You didn't want an heir that disagreed with your policies," Gwen stated clearly, "illegal or immoral, so I left… But you had me brought back. And here I am." Her open-handed stance didn't leave much range for gesturing, so she didn't try.

Nimueh's piercing blue eyes moved past Gwen's left shoulder, and her red lips curled in a sneer. "For them, you would betray your oath and your blood and your people," she returned, also clear and loud enough to be heard by those watching. "For slaves? For soldiers? For a rich freedman's sweet mouth and skillful hands? For a sorcerer's lies?"

"I betray nothing," Gwen said, ignoring _mouth_ and _hands_. "Slaves and soldiers are our people. Magic belongs to those who can use it as their birthright, and you cannot choose the gender of those who are strong or quick or wise. You cannot murder children you fear may someday threaten you, rather than encouraging their devotion, just because they're sons and not daughters.

"I know what the Twins did, and at your order. They both lie dead now, in a clearing several hours north by the road, because they tried to ambush a citizen of Camelot, and a freedman whose only transgression was to please my whim, rather than yours."

That took Nimueh by surprise; Gwen wondered what she thought had happened to the sisters. "They're dead? You're sure? Your – _men_ , killed them, no doubt, which only proves –"

"No," Gwen interrupted. "Morgause died on her sister's blade. And I took Morgana's life myself to –" Well, how did she explain that? Had Nimueh noticed any aberration of conjuring magic like Merlin had, or like Morgana displayed? "To save my own," she finished, setting her jaw determinedly.

"She attacked you," Nimueh said, incredulous.

Essentially, Morgana had attacked everyone. "Yes. And every man of them was willing to come here and stand trial and tell the truth. If the truth matters to justice, under your rule."

Nimueh stiffened. "You speak as an ignorant child."

"Do I?" Gwen took a deep breath; she hadn't come to quarrel. "When Blythewin defeated Bruta, everything changed. I'm sure she thought she was doing the right thing at the time, but now – if we have to kill young boys to keep them from earning citizenship and rights, if we have to brand and enslave and force and intimidate _half_ of our population – how is that loyalty? We are all killers, every one of us, and how does that make us worthy to be considered productive citizens? Fear and disrespect, and that is the world our children are meant to grow up in, learning to live to that pattern also? It is time for change, Majesty!"

Murmurs swelled all over the arena; Gwen couldn't tell what the mood was, supportive or defiant, but for the first time, Nimueh glanced up and around them. Gwen guessed she knew, many citizens would be shocked at the law-breaking, many would at least support the legal right of a young male to choose the arena. To live to have that chance. How many women among them had brothers or sons they cared about, and personally wished exempt from the gender laws?

"Merlin," Gwen continued, as soon as she felt confident she would be heard, again. "Was the only candidate this year who extended mercy in the arena. He planned to make his living as a healer, he asked for access to our library to learn, to better help the people who sought his care. He trusted us to treat him with the equality he'd earned, and he used his magic to aid those who showed themselves his friends. If he were female, you would reward him – but because he is a man, you seek to discredit and ruin him. How many others? Perhaps you are provoking the very uprising you fear, with such unlawful tactics. How many of them would willingly bend a loyal knee if they had the freedom to do so?"

"And how many of them would use that freedom to steal and kill and rape?" Nimueh countered.

"How many of our female citizens do that now?" Gwen exclaimed. "The Twins had your blessing to do so! And when a woman can command a man to her bed and his only alternative is flogging or prison – how is that any different than rape?"

She stepped closer, coming to arms-length with her mother, abandoning the audience for a more intimate appeal.

"Please. A male has earned citizenship for the first time in a century. Lord Lancelot has returned Blythewin's cup to our care. And Lord Arthur has drawn Bruta's sword from its place of hiding, to pledge to our service." That was stretching it a bit; his loyalty to her was probably unshakable, but to Nimueh, depending on the outcome of today's trial. "Please, just admit you were wrong, offer reparations to the families of the boys, begin to lift the stricter laws, and that can be the end of this…"

"Bruta's sword," Nimueh said, and her red lips curled. "Is that what he told you? And you believed him. Well, I suppose that is partly my fault – I didn't want you distracted with lovers and babes while you were learning a queen's responsibilities, and I kept them from you. And see where that got me – you have no idea of a queen's responsibilities, and you are besotted with that golden-haired stud. I promise you, whatever he's done with you and to you in bed, it's nothing special, anyone could do it."

 _I love you_. Gwen highly doubted the declaration he'd made to her - in bed - could be duplicated by anyone.

Then Nimueh added, sardonically but in absolute earnest, "Perhaps I ought to consider gelding him as part of his punishment."

"Please don't do this," Gwen said, suddenly despairing. Her mother wouldn't listen to a word, wouldn't move one inch from the stand she'd taken. Would _manage_ whatever uncertainty Gwen's words had caused among their people. "I cannot withdraw. I will not surrender. You will have to kill me… please. Don't do this. Not like this."

Nimueh's mouth thinned; her eyes were blue fire scrutinizing Gwen. Then she gave a slow nod, and glanced aside at Commander Ygraine – who had not overheard that last threat to her only child, Gwen believed – and Captain Cady.

"Very well," she said, stepping back so the two officers could hear as well. "I accept your offer to change my mind regarding the terms of this challenge, and release you from your obligation to fight."

 _But wait, we didn't agree to –_

"Lord Arthur will be the champion I fight in your place," the queen added.

"No!" Gwen blurted, "I didn't mean –"

"Commander, please escort Her Highness to the stands and see to it that her replacement is made aware of his duty."

Ygraine was pale, her lips bloodless and her jaw set. She didn't meet Gwen's eyes, directing a bow to her sovereign and gesturing for Gwen to accompany her.

"No," Gwen objected again, over the thundering of her heart and through the sudden dryness of her mouth. What about Arthur's existing injuries, that would cripple him in a fight? "Arthur has no magic, how can you expect him to –"

"He may bring that toy he claims belonged to Bruta," Nimueh said carelessly. "Though it didn't do _him_ any good, did it?"

Ygraine had hold of Gwen's elbow, and drew her away. "You don't have a choice, Guinevere," she said quickly, in a low voice, keeping Gwen from stumbling too blindly on the sand. "But it may be for the best. He's very good, he'll be able to face her more dispassionately than you can manage. And even if not – you'll live, and have the chance to… choose a different path, another day. You'll have friends and allies to help you. Young Lancelot won't suffer much, and if Merlin is half the sorcerer everyone says he is, the others will survive to escape."

Gwen wanted to protest. But… _cup and sword, wild and tame, healer and killer, royal and slave… Him and her._ And Merlin convinced Gwen would still be queen.

Maybe with Excalibur in hand, Arthur did have a better chance than she did. But – Gwen briefly covered her face with her hands, blocking out sunlight and arena and excited populace – this was her mother. And Nimueh wouldn't surrender either; like the Twins perhaps, not seeing the consequences of the wrong choice til too late…

She let her hands fall and straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin as Ygraine led her to the arena's edge, and she recognized the line of her friends in the front row – Merlin... Arthur.

 _It will happen as it will happen, and all I can do is… my best in the moment._

Out of all the crowd, Gwen met Arthur's eyes – puzzled, concerned, _loving_ – and believed, his best was good enough for her.

 **A/N: I've forgotten my disclaimers of material based on the book. I think there's only this, though – the queen challenges the mc, intending to rid herself of a possible rival, and they meet in the arena. I've made a few changes, but for the outcome… which you can probably guess at pretty closely… hope you enjoy!**

 **I anticipate one more chapter at least, and maybe a second for an epilogue…**


	19. Excalibur's Choice

**Chapter 19: Excalibur's Choice**

Most of what was said between daughter and mother, princess and queen, was audible from where they stood – Percival next to Merlin next to Arthur, the others to either side and behind them, the officers still surrounding them in a loose semi-circle.

Accusations and rhetoric, plea and argument – and Percival thought, _it makes no difference to Nimueh, any of it. She cares for her rule, that it be absolute and uncontested, that the kingdom be what she chooses it to be. Not what's best, or…_

The princess stepped closer to her mother, and the conversation dropped too low for hearing.

The stone wall rising from the arena sand to mid-thigh level pressed into Percival's legs and he realized he was trying to lean closer, to hear. Commander Ygraine might confidently suggest that Merlin could effect their escape if things went badly, but Percival had seen combat, they all had, and he was not so hopeful. He was not sure it was fair to place such a burden on the youngest of them; Merlin leaned farther than he did, over the stone wall, balanced on his hands. Arthur's arms were crossed over his chest; beside Percival, Gwaine was whistling through his teeth to prove carelessness. He could not feel so calm, expecting every second that the two combatants would leap into immediate action.

Then the princess turned her back on the queen, led by the commander – led back to them.

"What –" Gwaine exclaimed aloud. "They're not fighting? Does that mean –"

"The queen agreed to nothing," Tristan said in a low voice from Gwaine's other side.

From the corner of his eye, Percival saw Merlin exchange a look with Arthur – and by the lord's expression, the same thought of explanation had occurred to both of them.

A champion would fight in the princess' stead.

Perhaps she'd been counting on changing her mother's mind, and it hadn't happened. Perhaps she'd realized she _couldn't_ fight the queen, perhaps she'd decided that she did _not_ have the best chance for victory, among them.

The heat was oppressive, the murmur of the crowd above, behind, all around them unsettling. Arthur leaned over the low stone wall separating them from the arena, and called to the two women approaching. "What's going on?"

Close enough now for Percival to see that the princess was upset, and the commander angry.

"Pull her up," Ygraine ordered.

Percival asked wordlessly, with a hand on Merlin's shoulder, and the younger man moved back to allow the space for Percival to join Arthur, leaning over the wall to catch the princess' upraised hands. Between the two of them, they lifted her quite easily, with only a bit of awkwardness about scrambling over the top. The princess swung her legs over and looked up into Arthur's face.

"I'm so sorry, it's my fault. I don't know what happened, but she's decided that you're to be my champion after all. She wants to fight you, I'm sure she wants to kill you in a way that your mother can't object to –"

Percival glanced down at Ygraine, watching silently back toward the queen and Captain Cady, in the center of the arena. And once again reflected how lucky they'd been, that Arthur's mother was a garrison commander, the equal of only a handful of women in the whole kingdom, and only outranked by the two royal females. How lucky that she was both clever and sympathetic.

Arthur cupped both hands around the princess' face, and bent to still her words with a quick, gentle kiss – and that in front of everyone watching. "It's all right," he told her with a crooked smile. "Merlin says you'll be queen, remember?"  
"He'll be all right, Gwen," Merlin added, and Percival wondered if that sounded like a promise, to anyone else. He folded one hand over the shoulder of Arthur's tunic, and squeezed.

Arthur took a step back without breaking Merlin's hold, hands and eyes going to the buckle of his sword-belt; Merlin dropped his hand as the princess reached forward to stop Arthur.

"No – she said you could keep it. Use it, fight with it. She didn't believe me that it was Bruta's – or maybe she wants to prove that she's just as good as Blythewin."

Arthur halted his movements to stare at her in disbelief – then looked at Merlin with something like hope. Percival felt it, too; with Excalibur – or any sword, probably – Arthur had a better-than-fighting chance. At least he'd be able to keep her at swords'-length distance. But another thought had occurred to the lord, and he seated himself swiftly by the princess.

"I'll do my best to spare her life," he promised, catching and pressing her hands.

"That's more than she'll do for you," Princess Guinevere sighed.

From below, the commander called up, "Royal patience wears thin, Arthur."

"Good luck – be careful!" the princess said, leaning to keep one hand on him as long as she could, as he rolled his legs into the arena, and dropped.

No one said anything else. Arthur made the watching princess a formal bow – tossed off a salute and a crooked grin to the rest of them. Merlin gave a rather jerky wave, but Percival and the rest who'd been soldiers returned the salute. Too bad if there were citizens watching who considered themselves offended.

Then he spun and they watched him march toward the center of the arena, Commander Ygraine near his side and matching his pace – though from behind, they couldn't tell if mother and son exchanged words. Arthur stretched briefly as he walked, and loosened Excalibur in its sheath. Percival couldn't tell that his ribs were paining him, but he'd be good at hiding weakness from an enemy.

Princess Guinevere stood slowly, pushing herself erect as if aware that eyes would be on her also – but her hand found Merlin's, and held.

"Is Her Majesty a swordswoman?" That was Tristan, behind them. The princess didn't turn to answer.

"I don't know. I've never seen her train, but…"

Percival focused on deep, steady breaths as if he were the one fighting, as if he could project his strength and confidence and calm to the lord who fought for them all. And wondered, suddenly, how many slaves or Watch-men were present. What the people of Camelot must be thinking. Fearing, hoping…

The commander stopped a dozen paces back from the queen, opposite Captain Cady on Nimueh's other side, but Arthur continued right up to Her Majesty – and when he reached her, he bowed.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and the princess gasped a sob – or maybe a laugh – that sounded _proud_.

Then Arthur straightened and balanced, sword drawn and at the ready – and nothing happened.

Percival clenched his fists, feeling muscles tighten up his arms, through his shoulders. He expected movement, circling, testing – feinting that led to attack and defense. But the queen's hands remained empty – her silk gown made her look slim and feminine and young, her bare feet made her look vulnerable. Unarmed. Arthur wouldn't attack first. And it made Percival – the rest of them – nervous. Was she planning, was she measuring Arthur in some way he couldn't match? he faced magic, after all.

But they couldn't stand and look at each other forever. One had to triumph, one to lose. That meant sooner or later, one would have to –

"Oh watch her _hands_!" Merlin exclaimed softly.

Just as the queen raised her left hand toward her face, as if to stifle a cough – then flicked her fingers out toward Arthur.

The princess hissed. A faint cloud of shimmering gold flew and expanded – Arthur tried to duck – sand?

Percival cursed the distance as Arthur shifted sideways, bending and lifting his free hand to his face as if to clear away whatever his opponent had thrown – cursed Nimueh for such a _trick_ , though it was obviously legal, as neither attendant protested.

"Watch her hands watch her _hands_!" Merlin said desperately.

Because the queen hadn't hesitated, following up her crippling-diversionary tactic by reaching an open outstretched palm for Arthur's body.

He seemed to realized this, swinging blindly, but still fairly accurately.

Nimueh leaned backward to avoid the blade. Not flinching, not hesitating – another gliding step brought her right next to the young lord. And she slapped her right hand on his chest, just over his heart.

Percival's seemed to stop. The princess made a sound like a choked gasp – Merlin might have growled –

But an instant later, Nimueh recoiled, as if her hand had simply bounced off Arthur's breastbone – open-mouthed in shock, her expression clear even at the distance.

Arthur stumbled – but swung Excalibur again to ward her off, and dropped his forearm from a quick rub across his eyes, to face her again. Slightly crouched. But still strong and sure on his feet.

"It didn't work," Percival said aloud, in disbelief – echoing the tenor of the ripple of verbal sound sweeping the seating levels. He looked to Merlin and the princess – not for contradiction, but for explanation. "It didn't work?"

No one answered. The princess' knuckles whitened around Merlin's grip; they were mirrors of each other's intensity.

Nimueh had retreated past the reach of Arthur's sword – but once again empty-handed, and Arthur did not attack. Was that a weakness, Percival wondered, or a farsighted strategy, with all of Camelot's women, citizens, watching. Commander Ygraine and Captain Cady kept their places, though each looked slightly bent with the tension of the fight they observed more closely than anyone else – and Ygraine, with much more at stake than any, save maybe Guinevere.

Then the queen gestured, shifting her back foot forward, lifting her hands palm-up, one behind the other. _Flames_ jumping up in one; in the other – Percival didn't see, but the fire blazed suddenly outward against Arthur, fast and hungry and large enough to engulf him.

Percival thought of the clinic, of a narrow gorge in the mountain – and the jagged edges of the queen's conjured conflagration flickered _around_ Arthur –

And went out.

"She can do _wind_?" Merlin said.

The princess spoke before he'd finished; her thoughts were elsewhere. "She's much better with fire than that..."

The queen withdrew again, to a slight crouch of her own – and now there was tension in her body visible at the distance that screamed of wariness. Percival thought suddenly, the two failed attempts would undermine her credibility with her women.

"Go get her!" Gwaine gritted between his teeth, on Percival's other side. "Go get her, don't wait –!"

Silver flashed from Nimueh's hands, one after the other – she moved and Percival's brain identified _throwing knives._ The princess sucked in a pained inhalation – but the first two projectiles spun away from their target, rebounding from Arthur's chest as the conjuror's hand had done.

Arthur visibly flinched – clearly expecting injury – but recovered from his surprise quickly, striding toward her now ready to use the blade in self-defense. One arm lifted to shield his face; he knocked two more conjured knives away from him with the sword. Nimueh couldn't back faster than he approached, and he leaned into a straight forward thrust – a clean-killing blow, no blood-splatter or slow-acting slash.

The queen slipped to the side like liquid, stepping forward to meet her opponent even as his blade passed between her elbow and side – and she grabbed his right forearm.

Arthur reacted instantly, yanking back from her like he'd been burned – but there was blood on his sleeve, and half a second later, he dropped Excalibur.

 _Oh, lords_. Percival's breath hissed in through his teeth – a similar sound rippled through the crowd.

Arthur bent and twisted as if to recover his weapon with his left hand – less skilled than his right, but still decently capable, in Percival's experience and opinion.

But the queen appeared encouraged by the first blood she'd drawn, and advanced with a sweeping motion like a slap.

This, Percival had seen before, and at the clinic the night of the fire. Water gushed from Nimueh's open hand like a horizontal waterfall, white in its speed and unexpected. The force knocked Arthur back – not off his feet, but off his balance – and another pace away from Excalibur.

 _No. Oh, no._

Nimueh's attack doubled in capacity and ferocity – Arthur's hands were up to try to block the brutal rush of water, but his elbows bent under the blast, and his head turned from side to side as if seeking an escape from the blinding deluge.

The queen bent to pick up the discarded sword. Negligently, in her off hand, and without slowing her assault.

And pursued Arthur, shoving the water at him so hard it splashed several feet to either side of his body, driving him back, bearing him down. Twice he made as if to dart right or left; Nimueh's hand followed him almost casually. The sand soaked up the conjured water in an expansive, darkening circle.

"He'll not be able to breathe," Merlin said desperately. For the amount of water, and also for the pressure.

Ygraine backed away from the action as her role required, but her shoulders rolled forward and her hands clasped in fists – Percival thought, _if the queen kills him, Ygraine will challenge her._ "Do something," he whispered, without any clear idea who he was addressing. " _Do_ something."

His clothing soaked to dripping, the sand treacherously flooded beneath Arthur's feet, for yards about - though the queen's footing appeared more certain for the cohesive dampening of the grains - and Arthur slipped.

A collective gasp – immediately he surged to his feet, only to lose more ground. He turned his back – _no_ , Percival thought – seeming to realize the vulnerability, he spun again to face her blindly, and she pushed her palm at him in one last great wave, knocking him right off his feet. Battering him into the ground, the stream of un-breathable liquid unrelenting over face and chest.

The moment lasted a lifetime, before she dropped her hand and the remainder of the water rippled away, draining down into the sand.

Arthur stayed down, his whole body struggling so obviously to recover air, sight, strength that Percival's chest ached in sympathy, and he was probably not the only one. Ygraine's fists were shoulder-height, her elbows bent as if to protect herself from the physical pain of watching her loss happen right in front of her. But she wasn't going to intervene; her honor and respect for the laws was too great.

Nimueh glanced up at their row as she took two steps, adjusting her grip on the sword with clear intention, smiling as she prepared to kill Arthur with the king's-sword he'd won for her daughter.

 _But_ , Percival thought again, feeling confused despair, _the prophecy, the balance…_ Merlin had said, Guinevere would be a good queen. Merlin had said, _he'll be all right…_

"No!" Merlin choked.

Nimueh gave the legendary blade a little hoist, that its weight might do half her work for her in the killing blow-

And blue light blasted from it.

A wave, a cloud, billowed explosively outward to the walls, climbing the tiered spectator seats. Percival cringed – it felt like a plunge into cool water, only reversed – passing over and through them.

Merlin's body alone was carried in its wake, flung backward into Tristan and Lancelot, who caught him as he went down.

The sand rippled. The air rippled – and cleared.

Nimueh was sprawled on the sand, Excalibur between her and Arthur – who was moving, struggling to get up. She remained immobile; the captain and commander stood shocked in place, evidently unaffected by the phenomenon.

Percival glanced back at Merlin – eyes closed and limp in unconsciousness, but Lancelot took his hand from Merlin's neck-pulse unworried, shifting him only for comfort. Gwaine left Percival's side to join them; the princess turned back to the arena, distracted and maybe a bit dazed, herself.

Arthur made it to his feet, but he wasn't steady, and he held his arm close to his body, the sleeve again showing red in spite of the thorough drenching he'd received. He cast about him for a moment as if searching, or remembering, then staggered to the side of the fallen, motionless queen. Without reclaiming his weapon, to assure himself of victory through the death of his adversary.

The arena was dead silent, as it had been the day Percival had said, _I surrender_ , as the lord checked his royal opponent for signs of life.

On his knees, Arthur lifted his face toward them.

The princess reached out without looking to clutch a handful of Percival's sleeve. "Get me down there," she ordered.

…..*….. …..*….. ….*…..

Gwen shuddered involuntarily and closed her eyes as blue fire swept the arena, expecting –

She didn't know what, but it felt a cool breeze only, perhaps carrying a fine mist – surprisingly invigorating, enveloping and departing – and she felt a strange sense of regret when it was gone.

Sharper regret, to see her mother crumpled motionless on the sand. Alleviated slightly by the sight of Arthur upright – but…

She reached for Percival, the strongest of her men. "Get me down there."

Already moving, swinging her legs over the arena wall, rolling to her belly as he stepped to her, gripping her hands as he straddled the wall in preparation to lower her; Leon was immediately at her other side to assist. Gwen glanced to Merlin, supported and tended by the other three; Gwaine looked up to meet her eyes and gave her a reassuring nod.

She clung to Percival's hand and Leon's, as they lowered her, unbent her elbows with an effort, til her toes touched sand and she let go.

Turning, she reminded herself, the eyes of the citizenry were once again upon her. A royal's authority was only as strong as the confidence of the people, so she didn't sprint, she hurried calmly. Both Ygraine and Captain Cady had recovered sufficiently from the shock of that enormous and uncanny magic, to approach Arthur and the queen.

He saw Gwen coming, and rose, taking half a dozen steps to meet her, his eyes dark with suppressed emotion. He was disheveled and a bit pale, his clothing grubby and rumpled – but dry, as the sand was dry, since the conjuration had ended.

But that meant…

She was finding it hard to breathe – she was breathing too much – what exactly had happened –

"The queen?" she said to him, and her voice shook on only two words.

Arthur bowed his head. Then put one foot forward, and knelt to her there on the sand. Her breath caught on overwhelming, confusing, conflicting feelings – she loved him so; she feared the future. And the present. Her mother hadn't moved, and Gwen couldn't so much as pause to be with Arthur for a moment.

She reached to caress his face, hidden from her by the angle of his head, and passed him.

Ygraine had reached Nimueh, taking a knee to press her fingers into the side of the queen's neck, as Arthur had done. The whole world felt a daze around Gwen; she experienced an irrational surge of hope that Ygraine's reaction could somehow be different from her son's.

It wasn't, much. The older woman looked up at her with a quiet sort of pain – Gwen remembered they were _cousins_ , after all – remembering happier, younger times, maybe. But over.

Gwen knelt by her mother's hip. She looked the same as always – sleeping, almost, though Gwen had never seen her mother asleep, but so white and still. Gwen gathered her hand – so skillful, so powerful. She remembered Nimueh waving to send sparks to light the candles, remembering wishing for her mother to touch her cheek with fond affection, to toy with her hair for no reason than familial closeness. But Nimueh never had done – always it was _queen_ and _princess_. Gwen's heart ached in her chest, but it was the grief she felt when thinking of her brother, or her father. It was regret for what hadn't been – and now, never would be.

Ygraine stretched across Nimueh's body, wiping a tear Gwen hadn't even noticed, from her cheek with her thumb. Another memory came, of Arthur saying, _My mother was very disappointed… she was unable to conceive again._ Gwen caught her breath at the sympathy and compassion in those blue eyes, so like her son's, an expression that was very nearly _motherly_ – then Ygraine rose to her feet.

"The queen is dead," she announced to the breathless dreadful anticipation of the arena crowd. Turning slightly to face a new section, she repeated. "The queen is dead. The queen is dead…"

Gwen took a deep breath. She knew she never would have made Nimueh proud, but there were others whose opinion she valued… she could try to make them proud. She laid Nimueh's hand down gently.

And met the conclusion of the commander's proclamation on her feet.

"Long live the queen!"

The roar astonished her. It was not that she'd expected opposition – it had all happened so fast, she'd not really expected the queen's death, or thought past it, ever – but the solid support took her by surprise. It wasn't a shrugged, _oh well she's heir what're you gonna do_. It was love and loyalty, from people she'd never met. It was trust in her and her reign, before she'd even begun.

Or maybe the blue fire that had erupted from the claimed king's-sword, that had taken the queen's life – perhaps even the unbalanced state of conjuration magic, if anyone had noticed that – made everyone glad that there was a clear candidate to handle matters, and therefore they needn't worry.

In spite of this day's tragedy and the unresolved question of the gender laws.

Ygraine had knelt again on one knee, and Captain Cady quite near her. The arena resounded overwhelmingly.

"Long live the queen!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _Merlin._

It was the lady's whisper, brushing his soul like the touch of her hand – a touch that came to him, lingered, and passed as he was unable to do more than stand still. It left an echo of the bittersweet longing he remembered from leaving her realm and her offer of immortal magic – but it reminded him of the reasons he'd made that choice.

Friends. Family. Arthur.

The next voice he heard was undeniably Gwaine's.

"So. What the hell was _that_?"

He struggled to lift his eyelids, and blinked tears at the endless bright blue of the sky. He sensed his friends around him – several faces appeared in his vision, though it remained blurry – and rasped, "You might as well… stop asking that, Gwaine. It was… magic. Can't explain…"

Several hands raised him, supported him through a dizzy spell. When it passed he focused on Gwaine, crouched in the walkway below his seat on the stone arena bench.

"You're still our expert, though, right?" Gwaine said with a bold grin.

"What happened?" Merlin said, trying to concentrate past him on the trial-grounds. Percival stood sideways to him so he could see comfortably in both directions, bare arms crossed over his chest, but a thunderous shout both interrupted and explained.

 _"Long live the queen!"_

Merlin kept his mouth from dropping open with an effort. A faint familiarity passed over his consciousness like the shadow of an unseen bird – how wrong it had felt when Nimueh had touched Excalibur to wield against Arthur, a wrongness not unlike what he'd felt in the clearing when Morgana resisted her twin's death. So Nimueh was dead, then. Somehow.

And Gwen was accepted – acclaimed – the sovereign of Camelot. In his mind's eye he saw her in a gorgeous gown of deep purple velvet, decorated with jewelry, curly hair done in flowers and the golden monarch's crown – bending down to Arthur knelt before her.

"Arthur!" Merlin blurted, lurching up from his seat on the bench, leaving his friends' hands behind. "Is he all right? He was bleeding –"

Out on the sand, the commander and the captain both knelt to Gwen, on her feet next to the queen's body. Arthur was further, also on his knees with his head bowed – but Merlin worried about exhaustion and blood loss.

Deciding, he scrambled over the low stone wall.

"Hey!" called one of the officers. "You're not supposed to do that!"

Percival dove to catch his arm with both hands, but he looked up into his friend's square-jawed face and the big man understood, leaning forward to help lower him down. Merlin's free hand scraped the stone, trying to find a grip as the toes of his boots did the same below him – and suddenly Leon was lying chest-down on top of the wall, reaching over to give him another hand.

"Thanks," Merlin said breathlessly, lowering his weight to the sand, glad to see that the officers tasked with their custody weren't making a fuss. Turning, he trotted out toward Arthur, seeing that both assistants to the duel had risen again; Ygraine signaled to one side, and a troop of Watchmen emerged from one of the arena-level doors.

Gwen had left the queen's body to move to Arthur's side, reaching out her hand in clear invitation – a singular distress at seeing him kneel, on her face.

Arthur took her hand, but instead of rising, he kissed it, then lifted it to his forehead – an unmistakable sign of sworn fealty.

She spoke to him – he looked up, then was on his feet in an instant, gathering her to his side as he'd done in the clearing, holding his injured bloody arm away from her. And again he bent his lips to her forehead, a kiss that was comforting and supportive, sweetly possessive but also generously offering everything, in return. They turned to him at the same time – surprised to see him, but not yet irritated with him for doing something prohibited, coming out onto the sand – and he couldn't help it.

Still three paces from them, Merlin dropped to his knees before the pair. "Your Majesty."

"Oh, Merlin," Gwen said, reproachful and grateful, at once. But she came those few steps further, offering him her hand. "You're all right, aren't you?"

"I'm fine." The sand was warm under his knees, the air cool and still smelling faintly like water; behind his sovereign and her chosen lover, the Watch situated Nimueh's body on a long narrow bier, with care and respect.

It was strange to think, how much had happened and how much had changed, since he'd last been in this arena. He took Gwen's hand – and then it felt, completely natural. He kissed the backs of her fingers, pressed her knuckles to his forehead – yet didn't rise. Blinking upward at their confusion – as Arthur was still within the circle of Gwen's arm – he gestured to be offered Arthur's hand as well.

"My lord," he said, and his voice felt husky in his throat.

"Merlin, you shouldn't –" Arthur glanced at Gwen, and swallowed his protest.

His hand trembled as he extended it; Merlin's did also as he caught it and dipped his forehead briefly in his own private – and also very public – affirmation of loyalty.

But then, as Arthur had unbent his elbow to lower his hand for the first time, there was blood. Trickling down Arthur's forearm and wrist into Merlin's hand, and he was on his feet in an instant, carefully – swiftly – rolling the sleeve back to better see the injury. Gwen made a sound of sympathetic pain and shock, but Merlin didn't think it looked all that bad. Not life-threatening, anyway. It was a double wound, each an inch and a half long and still oozing blood from either side of his forearm – the queen's conjuration had gone straight through.

"Just a blade?" Merlin said, feeling gently for the twin bones, frowning to himself as it caused an increase in the flow of blood. Better that than something with dimension, like a stake, say. It looked a bit like the queen had tried to sever Arthur's arm – or just severely dislocate it by forcing the two bones apart – but he wouldn't say that out loud, in front of Gwen.

"I think so," Arthur said.

The bones were sound. It needed stitching, but that would have to wait for _real_ materials. Merlin didn't bother with containers, but conjured water and cloth for a quick washing, dismissing them in a blink to fill his fingertips with a comfrey-yarrow salve that would slow bleeding, numb pain, and promote healing.

"How bad is it?" the commander asked from behind him.

Strips of clean, lightweight cloth fluttered from his fingers, as fast as he could wrap the bandage around Arthur's arm. "Not too bad," he replied absently, "I'll sew it later –" catching Arthur's grimace, he added, "and I'll numb it with some ice, so that won't hurt much, I promise."

"Why was it," Ygraine continued deliberately, "that the conjuration did not pierce your chest?"

There was silence for a moment as Merlin finished the bandage, tying it off neatly – not quite silence, as the crowd still reacted to the outcome of the match, staying to watch and gossip or starting to depart to their own lives and concerns. Then he realized, no one had responded because they were all looking to him for an answer. A bit confused, all he could think to do was examine Arthur's tunic – but it looked normal to him. Ygraine pulled a knife from her belt and tested the material carefully – but without any success in piercing it.

"It's like armor, almost," she declared, with a final gesture that Merlin glimpsed, was also a caress of love and relief, for her son, who gave her a private smile, before addressing Merlin.

"Did you do that?"

"I – um, I…" he stammered. "I'm not sure?" He had been wishing rather fiercely that he could shield Arthur – and what about Nimueh's conjured fire, then, too? – as he gripped the garment at Arthur's shoulder, the last time. He glanced quickly and almost guiltily at the three women – would that be considered cheating, if he hadn't actually intended the result?

Ygraine looked at Captain Cady, who shrugged. "She threw sand in his face to begin with."

Merlin breathed a little easier.

"Come," Ygraine said to Gwen. "There is much to be done yet today."

Merlin thought of funeral and announcements, and it would probably be a production ten times as complicated for royalty, as what he'd experienced with his own mother. He guessed Gwen would be deeply grateful for Ygraine's presence and assistance – but the thought reminded him, and he stopped Gwen turning away with a hand on her elbow.

"I'm so sorry about your mother," he whispered, daring to put his arms around her shoulders – _oh lords, he was hugging the queen_ – and she squeezed him back.

"We'll talk," she promised him, and through the tears shining unshed in her dark eyes, he saw that she remembered his own loss, also. "It will help us both, I'm sure."

"And us?" Arthur said, as the commander gestured to lead the young queen along in the wake of her mother's body. "Our men?"

Ygraine exchanged another look with the captain, preparing to march in position at Gwen's other side. She gave a half-mocking bow. "You are free to go, my lord."

Arthur looked at Merlin, who shrugged. "My place burned, remember?"

He looked back at Ygraine, who was wearing a maternal version of her son's sardonic grin. "You are expensive, my son." She paused. "But worth every penny. Yes, spend as is necessary for your company, in my name."

"And come to the palace in the morning," Gwen added. Arthur – and Merlin, a belated second later – gave her a proper bow. But instead of continuing on her way from the arena, Gwen moved to the side, to retrieve Bruta's sword from where it had fallen.

Ygraine at least, hissed a sudden caution – but Merlin had seen Excalibur accept Gwen's possession, before, and wasn't surprised when it behaved itself like an ordinary weapon, in her grasp. Prophecy fulfilling itself, magic balancing power, coming to the hand meant to wield it.

Gwen brought Excalibur back to Arthur, and he shifted to allow her to slide it into place at his belt. "If you would, please," she said softly, glancing at him with an upward sweep of her dark lashes that had Arthur holding his breath – Merlin was close enough to notice. "Carry it for me, for now?"

"My lady," Arthur replied, and it sounded almost intimate.

She gave him another smile, neither happy nor joyful - having been orphaned and destined to be crowned very soon – but content.

And really, Merlin thought, who could ask for more than that?

Queen Gwen turned to join her two officers in following the funereal procession from the arena, and Arthur twisted to check and settle the legendary sword at his hip.

Merlin thought of his vision, Arthur kneeling to receive his coronet at Guinevere's hand, the love shown by both for the other in every detail – the acceptance of the ceremony by the multitude in attendance. He whispered, so softly Arthur didn't even hear him – and it might be treason yet, for a while –

"Long live the queen… long live the king."

 **A/N: Sorry this one was a bit late – that's the bad news. Good news is, the reason it's late is because I was editing an original story for the literary agent I signed with! (Obviously that doesn't guarantee publication, but it's a step in the right direction as well as a hefty boost of confidence!)**

 **Oh, yeah, and the Olympics I've been watching, instead of writing!...**

 **All that's left is the epilogue… hopefully this conclusion was as epic as I promised!... I don't believe I plagiarized the scene from the book I've been following, I don't remember it clearly, but for the outcome. Of course.**


	20. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 **One year later…**

Percival stood in the door-less closet they called the laundry room, folding the last of the washed-and-dried linens on the ledge formed by cabinets that sat on the wood-plank floor. He wiped a trickle of sweat on the shoulder of his sleeveless tunic; the building's fireplace was just on the other side of the wall, and kept burning most of the day for hot water.

Matching corners and allowing his mind to wander, he remembered the times when water could be conjured already hot, and dismissed to leave linens instantly dry, as well. Much had changed in a year – but on the whole, he was more than happy to do the clinic's laundry as a freedman. The first of the laws to change was the conditional prohibition of emancipation – and Merlin's signature on their papers was dry not an hour later.

"And if you walked outside, you'd be shivering," Gwaine remarked without sympathy, lounging into the doorway behind him.

Percival fitted the last sheet into its section of the set of cupboards lining the wall. "If you haven't got anything better to do than stand there and watch –"

"I'm supervising," Gwaine claimed with a grin.

"You might consider lending a hand." He unabashedly reminded his friend, "It's my day off tomorrow."

And where Gwaine might once have protested, in that case Percival needed to do his own work today, he understood the impatience to finish and be gone. Because Percival had someplace to go, on his day off. Not quite home, as all three of them called the quarters behind the clinic – but a close second.

"Yeah," Gwaine said, "about that. I'm to do the infirmary rounds this evening, and Merlin has a last-minute patient he needs your help with. Because _he_ can't be late for dinner."

"No, I suppose not." Percival gave the room a glance – sheets, towels, washing-cloths, bandages, rags all stored in plentiful supply – then headed for the front of the building, the smaller private room where Merlin performed initial examinations.

"Say hello for me tonight, yeah?" Gwaine called after him, heading the opposite direction toward the kitchen in the rear. Percival waved a hand without slowing, to show he'd heard and agreed.

Past the room where the vessels were kept and washed, everything from chamber-pots to tiny dose-cups. Past the room where Merlin stored and mixed his medicinal supplies. Past the door to the infirmary – he glanced in at the rows of cots and curtains, stools and small tables stacked neatly at the far end in readiness for need. Only two patients in residence, both recovering from sweating sickness but still quarantined for their families' safety.

Coming up to the examination room, he could hear Merlin speaking.

"No, I don't think it's sweating sickness. Maybe a touch of pneumonia – nothing serious but it's made worse by… um. Lack of proper nutrition and. Shelter."

An amused huff from the patient, followed by a bout of coughing. Percival arrived in the doorway to see a raggedly-clothed older man hunched on the table; he was tall, by the way his legs dangled, big-boned but – as Merlin had awkwardly mentioned – undernourished. He was turned away from the doorway, watching Merlin at the far end of the table, mixing some draught or healing concoction. His jaw was square and unshaven, graying whiskers nearly as long as the bristle covering his scalp and retreating from his forehead.

"You've surely heard the rumors," the man said, his voice holding the hoarse sound of a sore throat. "Another change to the laws. Slaves to be freed when they've worked off the price paid for them."

"That about sums it up," Merlin murmured, swirling the liquid in a little dose cup and holding it up to the light. Percival thought, it was probably far more complicated than that, but Merlin would know, as a frequent visitor to the palace.

"Additionally, slaves are to be manumitted with some recompense for the years served beyond that price-met," the man continued, sounding like he was repeating something that had been told to him. "So my mistress decided to get ahead of that bit of legislation. Turn me loose early and with nothing, and not have to pay a physician to get me over this cough, neither. Not when I'm old and useless."

The voice sounded familiar to Percival, even without the rasp of illness, but he couldn't quite grasp the memory.

"Old does not mean useless," Merlin disagreed, adding a few drops to his mixture from another bottle.

"Be as it may," the stranger said, and coughed again. "I was told your clinic sometimes cares for the likes of me without asking pay…"

"You heard right." Merlin's grin was wide, even in profile – and brilliant as he turned to hand the man the cup. "Now, I apologize, but I simply can't stay."

He glanced up to note Percival waiting, as the man tipped his chin to down the medicine, and Percival nodded. Merlin was meant to dine at the palace tonight, with Queen Guinevere and Lord Arthur her betrothed – and _that_ was a city-wide scandal only just settling down. The occasion was to celebrate Arthur's new citizenship – earned as most of the seventeen-year-olds this year, not in the arena, but through a series of written tests, interviews and testimonies, hours of various forms of service without pay. It was something he'd thought about doing himself, someday, but… someday.

Merlin had said, he and Gwaine might have been invited, but for the fact that Commander Ygraine and her husband were to be there. And _that_ was a revelation not-so-shocking, upon second thought, Arthur's mother had married his sire, and in secret – apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it. Percival didn't suppose he envied Merlin the meeting of Arthur's father, formidable by reputation; the treat of a royally-prepared feast was probably offset by the awkwardness of the finery and required manners. If either Tristan or Leon - Arthur's replacement as the steward of Dubois garrison - could have made the trip, Percival might have regretted missing it, but as it was, he could congratulate Arthur the next time they met for a sparring session on the royal grounds; he and Gwaine had a standing invitation to participate, courtesy of Her Majesty.

"My assistant Gwaine should have something decent prepared for the dinner of those in our infirmary, you're welcome to join them," Merlin added. "Percival can show you…"

The man's head snapped up to stare at Merlin – then followed his gaze, turning for the first time toward the doorway. And froze so thoroughly Merlin could not pry the dose-cup from his thin, dirty fingers.

Percival was sympathetic to the reaction, standing very still in a shock of his own. "Scandyr. Isn't it."

"I thought you might be here." The older man pushed himself gingerly from the table, straightened slowly and maybe with a bit of pain, but his hands landed on Percival's shoulders almost as heavily as they used to, and his gray eyes were clear. "I hoped you would be."

He turned slightly without releasing Percival – who somehow couldn't lift his arms for any reciprocal embrace – to see Merlin staring in surprise.

"I heard it first last year. Boy made citizen out of the arena, and two opponents from the military spared for slavery. The names - Percival, being one of them. Then of course that business between the young queen and her old mother – again hearing that name Percival." He gave Percival a shake – not near as strong as he remembered, but it unbalanced him enough that he could move again, and reached to grip the older man's upper arms.

"I went back," he said, his voice feeling thick in his throat. "Soon after. I went back to the neighborhood, found my mother, my sisters… but not you."

"No," Scandyr agreed, and snuffled a pair of jewel-hard tears away from his eyes. "That mistress, sent me to the auction block not yet a year after you were marked for the military." He lifted one wrinkled, trembling hand to turn Percival's head enough to see it, and the long-healed brand that once had marked him Merlin's for life – meaningless, now, and yet _not_. "How are they, then, your mother and sisters?"

"Cwyla has been a teacher a few years now, and Gaelle passed the queen's test for citizenship three months ago," Percival said, and went on without a breath. "I'm to have dinner with them tonight, I'm just now leaving, why don't you come with me?"

Scandyr's lips twisted, rearranging both wrinkles and scars, on his face. "And what makes you think that I'd be welcome at your mother's table?"

And what made Percival think it wasn't his mother's table, that Scandyr was thinking of, in terms of past welcome? He said, in a low voice though Merlin knew this and understood, "She never told me who my –" deliberately he used the word – " _father_ , was."

The older man's gray gaze held his. "She never told me, either."

"Come anyway," Percival said. Things were changing. "Maybe she will."

"And maybe she won't," Scandyr countered. Then ducked his head and shuffled his feet. "But… I'll come with you, boy. This once, anyway."

Glancing past the old soldier, Percival caught the gleam of Merlin's grin – likely at hearing someone call him _boy_. But as Scandyr made his slow way – with a slight limp – towards Percival in the door, Merlin followed, and Percival's perception of his boy-master's grin changed. It was pure delight, that Percival had found someone he'd been close to. His father, for all intents and purposes, responsible for the training that had placed Percival in the military, if not his sire.

Percival gently clapped Scandyr's shoulder, and encouraged him to the door.

"If nothing else, we can find work for him here," Merlin said, shifting close to Percival's ear so the old man wouldn't hear. "You look like him, you know."

Percival's heart squeezed, and something like joy burst out into his chest. "Thanks, Merlin."

"Have fun at dinner."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You, too."

Then Merlin's smile dropped, and he groaned in realization, "Oh, lords, what will General Uther think of me – I'm going to be _late_!"

 **Two years later…**

"Merlin has really horrible timing," Gwen confided to her newest and youngest secretary.

The girl, petite and pretty with dark soulful eyes and brown hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, was a new citizen, this past month. She'd passed the series of tests Gwen had formulated with her council – to replace the carnage of the arena, and to place young boys and girls on a more even footing – with the sort of results that drew attention. In the best of ways, but Gwen had found her personally shy and uncertain, though a little encouragement and experience should diminish that.

Freya glanced up at the sky, stepping out from the edge of shade where Gwen relaxed in a chair placed for her by a guard, at the bottom of the wall separating arena-sand from the nearly-empty seating. Nearly empty, because Gwen had allowed the rumors, so that the citizens of Camelot – still mostly female, but now including the young men from the last two years, as well as a handful of older ones, also – would not be terrified by the unexpected arrival of their guests.

"I don't see anything, yet," Freya told her. "Merlin's not so late…"

"I wasn't speaking of his timing for the meeting," Gwen said. "I mean, in about seven months' time, I'm going to wish that Merlin was here, not–"

"I am here!" a familiar voice called down the corridor behind them.

Freya turned, and Gwen twisted in her seat to squint past the two guards posted, into the hallway, dim after the open-air sunshine. The footfalls of his boots echoed at a quick pace as he came into view, jogging to join them. He gave Freya a quick glance, then made his bow to Gwen.

"Your Majesty. I'm sorry I'm late, again?" It wasn't an uncommon thing, but no one minded – Merlin's clinic sometimes took precedence over leisure hours spent with friends. "The boys wanted to come with me." He twisted to look up into the stands.

Gwen followed his gaze to see three men standing a quarter of the way up. Gwaine up on one of the bench-seats, shading his eyes to scan the sky, while the other two faced each other for closer conversation. She smiled; Percival really did look like Scandyr. Gwaine gave a shrill whistle that echoed against the stone, and waved, and she turned to see her husband in the middle of the arena return the salute – but continue his own skyward vigil.

"No, you're not late," she told Merlin, stretching out a hand for him to kiss with his habitually endearing boyish twinkle. He straightened to look out over arena and sky, and she added, "We were speaking of another matter."

"Oh?" His attention was mostly on Arthur, heedless of the sun Gwen and Freya avoided, in awaiting their guests.

"Have you met Freya?" Gwen added, trying to remember the occasion of Merlin's last visit, and who had been in attendance. "My newest secretary."

Merlin turned to the girl in that way he had of paying a person complete and almost intimate attention, that Gwen adored and sometimes envied. "No, I don't think I have. Lovely to meet you – a new citizen?"

"This year," she admitted shyly, turning pink. Gwen rolled her eyes, but smiled – Freya had a lot of growing up to do.

"Congratulations, then." Merlin swayed toward her and opened his mouth to say more, but Arthur's shout from the center of the sand interrupted and distracted.

"Guinevere!"

She stood from her seat to Merlin's other side, all three of them following Arthur's full-arm point to the sky. A black dot suspended there, growing in size by the faintest and slowest degrees – like a sparrow – an eagle –

"Gwen," Merlin said, without taking his eyes from the approaching figure, and sounding a bit tense. "It's… just… he's…"

She squeezed his upper arm through the blue sleeve of his shirt, and leaned closer to whisper, "It's okay. He can't be worse than Arthur's father."

It was a measure of Merlin's nerves, that he didn't so much as chuckle at her joke. He gave her a quick glance and a wry smile, then strode out to join Arthur. Gwen delayed, and Freya stepped closer as their guests took clearer shape, and dropped slowly toward the best landing-field Gwen could think of, when the meeting had been affirmed by return courier.

"My lady," the young secretary said faintly. "Are you quite sure it's… safe?"

Gwen snorted, even as she felt a similar twinge of uncertainty over the upcoming visit – though no one had written or come to her personally with hysterical warnings of riots provoked by this overture.

"I'm quite sure neither of them are _safe_ ," she said. The shape of those wings were almost bat-like, but enormous – and the claws that extended for landing seemed almost ready to snatch Arthur and Merlin – moving back to give the creature space. The man on the back of the dragon's neck seemed almost tiny in comparison. Cries echoed thinly from the stands; she hoped they were in amazement, rather than genuine fear, but sometimes fear had to be faced, to be discounted. "But Merlin assures us that the desire for alliance is genuine, and he's thoroughly trustworthy, of course. Arthur didn't think there were going to be any real problems."

And Arthur was surprisingly intuitive about potential conflict, how to handle it strategically, and rarely with head-on brute force. She was _so_ fortunate to have him.

Thousands of tiny grains leaped into the air when the dragon touched down; Freya might've squeaked - might've grabbed Gwen's arm if she'd been anyone else. It seemed to Gwen that the creature took his time settling, folding his wings – preening, maybe, or laughing at the trepidation of his audience.

That wouldn't do.

Gwen squared her shoulders, setting off across the sand to meet their guests, aware of Freya just beyond her right elbow, and the two armed guards taking up escort positions behind them both.

The figure of a man, dark-haired and dark-clothed, dropped as the dragon bowed his head briefly. Merlin stepped forward, leading with his hand – the man took it, but pulled Merlin into an embrace that looked genuinely heartfelt.

"Oh, good," Gwen said aloud, involuntarily.

Because of course heritage could not be denied, nor the responsibilities it brought, but she had worried a private bit for the young man who planned to spend so long with his father's people, and away from his friends. Seeing the greeting of Balinor the Dragonlord for his son, Gwen was comforted that _heritage_ and _responsibilities_ would be softened by family and love.

"Oh, my," Freya murmured.

Gwen had to agree with her, there. The man turning from a more reserved greeting of Arthur, looked wilder than any she'd ever seen, tougher than a soldier or a criminal. His clothing was leather, and tight-fitting – for flying, she presumed – his height equal to Merlin's, but his shoulders and chest filled out with more muscle than his young son. Long hair and a full beard, shot with silver, only slightly offset by the hint of an amiable twinkle in dark eyes.

But Merlin, keeping pace with him, half-turned as if he couldn't quite tear his eyes away from his parent, was absolutely lit from inside with excitement. "Gwen – this is my father, Balinor. Father, this is Queen Guinevere of Camelot."

"I'm so glad you agreed to come, you are very welcome," she said, bravely giving her hand to him. As untamed as his dragon, she thought. But though his hand was rough and scarred, his touch was gentle as Merlin's. Briefly she wished she could have shown a moment like this, to her mother, years ago – not by force, but by friendship.

"You honor us with your invitation," Balinor said. "King Arthur has already met him, but I'm proud to present more formally to both Your Majesties - Kilgarrah, eldest of the dragons of Albion."

Oh, lords, she had not anticipated _this_ introduction – Gwen supposed it would be rude at least, to expect any sort of obeisance from such a creature, and chose the regal nod that was appropriate from one monarch to another. Arthur's salute was slightly deeper, head and shoulders, both.

The dragon settled down over his forelegs – so like a cat it was startling.

But Merlin whipped around to stare at the creature disapprovingly. "None of that, now," he warned, sounding abruptly more mature than she usually saw him.

The dragon huffed smoke from his nostrils, and Balinor frowned from his son to his dragon, and back. "What?"

"Oh, he… claims credit in the ascension of both their Majesties," Merlin said, glancing embarrassed at Gwen and Arthur both.

She looked toward her husband, remembering that day, herself. Not as soon as she would have liked, there had been prejudices to overcome and reassurances to be made, among the most influential women of her kingdom.

Arthur met her eyes with a gleam in his own – a bold look he usually reserved for private – a look that reminded her of the moment of coronation. It was confidence – in the love they shared, in mutual respect, in her security of identity and understanding of him - but also a playful tease to threaten queenly solemnity.

To share the moment and the memory – but also to rebuke him slightly – she raised her chin, in a challenge that nearly set him off laughing. And it was due to his respect for her, that he didn't.

"Just because you can see the future," Balinor stated – addressing them, but with his eyes on Kilgarrah. "Does not mean that you are responsible for bringing it to pass, by what you say or do – or don't."

The dragon turned his head, affecting disinterest. Gwen almost chuckled.

"This is my aide, Freya," she said, looking around belatedly to see that the girl hadn't succumbed to fright, and slipped off. Freya clutched her schedule-book tightly to her chest, eyes wide and maybe a bit pale – but stepped forward at the introduction.

"My lady," Balinor said gravely, extending an invitation for her hand that she met involuntarily.

"Oh, I'm not…" Freya stammered, as the bearded dragonlord lifted her slim hand for a light kiss, as he'd done to greet Gwen herself. "Not even nobility," she murmured, glancing around as her cheeks pinked, but no one else was disconcerted as she was, and Gwen smiled to encourage her. If they were to begin to treat with foreign royalty, they would need to anticipate foreign customs or oddities. And men.

"We have accommodations for you arranged in the palace, for the duration of your stay," Gwen said to Balinor.

She took Arthur's elbow as he offered it, and angled her body as an request for the older man to walk abreast of them, toward the open door that led eventually to the palace. Merlin seemed perfectly happy to fall in behind them with Freya, and the guards, who'd kept respectful distance during the greetings, brought up the rear of the procession.

"Unless you'd prefer to be closer to Kilgarrah?" she added. There were plenty of chambers within the arena complex, that could be fitted for a guest's comfort.

"Great scaly beast is on his own," Balinor said cheerfully. Behind them, Kilgarrah adjusted his wings with a snap, and turned his back. "As long as your people keep their distance, he's prepared to tolerate gawking."

Gwen glanced up and around, at the several people who had come to the arena to see the rumored dragon for themselves. Gwaine, Percival, and Scandyr were still present, though their attention seemed to remain on Kilgarrah, and they were headed away from the trio.

"I don't believe anyone will bother him," Arthur said dryly.

Balinor shot them a bearded version of Merlin's humor-filled smile, and paused at the open doorway, as the corridor was narrow for three people to walk together comfortably, bowing his head and gesturing his willingness to wait. "I made him promise not to hurt anyone while we were here," he confided. "And no mortal weapon can hurt him, in any case."

As she lingered, Gwen's reaction was relief – but beside her, Arthur's hand moved to grip the hilt of Excalibur, and she remembered. The dragonlords had been informed of the culmination of the quest when she and Merlin had sent their first missive to establish communication; Merlin had said, _Kilgarrah probably already knows_.

"Yes, that would probably do it," Balinor said, but his smile remained in place, unworried. "May I see it? It is one thing to be taught that your life's purpose is guarding a legendary weapon – quite another to look upon it with your own eyes."

Arthur drew the blade with a ring of metal, and offered it horizontally on his palms. Balinor stepped right up to him to study Excalibur, passing his hand over it without touching – as Ygraine once had, Gwen remembered, in the Watch gatehouse.

"The drawing of it…" The older man met Arthur's eyes without raising his head. "It wasn't easy, was it."

"Well, _actually_ …" Merlin murmured.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said. "You missed most of it, anyway. No, it wasn't… easy."

"But impressive, nevertheless." Balinor dropped his hand, and Arthur – who'd probably have been perfectly fine with the older man taking the weapon for a more thorough handling or testing – re-sheathed it. "I can hear Kilgarrah –" the dragonlord tapped his temple – "over quite a distance, so I'm sure we'll be fine. After the rough living our community is used to, I confess I'm quite looking forward to enjoying the accommodations of a palace."

"If there's anything you or Kilgarrah need, please don't hesitate to ask," Gwen said.

"Thank you, my lady, but I honestly don't anticipate a lengthy stay."

"Why not?" she said curiously. "Surely you know you're welcome to stay as long as you like."

"I hear you're both clever and reasonable," Balinor said, his glance including both of them. "And our conditions are few, and simple. It won't take us long to come to terms."

"That may be so," Arthur said, as Gwen was inwardly reassured to hear Balinor's confidence as representative of his people. "But still –"

"Honestly, Majesties… My brethren are eager to receive and instruct Merlin as my son – and heir of our gift, one day when I'm gone." Balinor smiled, slinging an arm around his son's shoulders; Merlin looked happily surprised to hear it. "I had to promise them not to get _too_ comfortable here, and bring him back as soon as possible."

Arthur signaled gently, and Gwen agreed, stepping into the shade of the corridor beside him, as father and son followed them closely. "How long are you going to take him off our hands for?" he said carelessly.

"Hey," Merlin gave a token protest.

Gwen jabbed her knuckles into Arthur's ribs, though his tunic rather cushioned the effect, even as she turned to see Merlin's grin. Behind father and son, Freya was watching them both with a sort of disbelieving amusement.

"It will depend on him," Balinor said, more seriously. He'd dropped his arm, but he was speaking as much to Merlin as to Arthur's question. "To my knowledge, we've never had a fledgling lord raised outside the community, nor one with such strong independent magic."

Nor one that didn't want to stay? Gwen wondered. It would be a loss for Camelot if he left for good – maybe something to keep in mind when she and Arthur spoke officially with the dragonlord in council – but a personal loss as well. She thought she could safely say the young man was her husband's best friend. They were going to miss him terribly.

"Months, years, decades?" Arthur said lightly, but she heard the echo of his concern, in his voice.

"Years, at least," Balinor said.

Well, there went her hope that Merlin could attend her as physician in seven months or so – she pressed her free hand to her belly, and still felt nothing.

Three steps they took, in awkward silence. Then Merlin said teasingly, " _Years_ , Arthur. What will you do without me?"

Arthur said sarcastically, "I plan to cry a lot."

Merlin scoffed, Balinor snorted a chuckle, and Freya giggled like a clear brook in sunshine, gathering her one of Merlin's smiles, over his shoulder.

Gwen couldn't help smiling, too. "If you're not too tired from your trip, my lord, I've planned to give you a tour of our palace – and perhaps the city tomorrow?"

"You have to see the clinic," Merlin interjected eagerly.

"Just Balinor, please, Majesty," the dragonlord said, the addressed his son again, also. "And yes, definitely. Though I am certain, this will not be my only visit…"

 **Five years later…**

Sunset from the air was something Merlin decided, he was never going to get used to.

The thrill of being among the majestic colors shifting, changing, fading – the thrill of flight. The air currents tugging at his tight-fitting riding leathers, the swoop of rise and fall his internal equilibrium claimed, though visual cues for confirmation were lacking. Never a disappointment – though tonight he'd rather hoped they would reach Camelot in time to see the city and palace, not just its lights.

He shifted his seat, and resettled his pack; Kilgarrah sensed something of his mood, as he always did.

 _What is on your mind, youngling?_

 _I wish I didn't feel so… divided_. This, too, was a skill he'd acquired, among the many, a form of conversation that didn't require words. _Camelot is my home and family – but so are you all._ And one day…

He could hardly bear to think. But much of his training with the dragonlords' community had forced him to contemplate his father's mortality. Would he really leave Camelot for good? There was so much he had missed, his years of living in the mountains with his father's people.

Kilgarrah didn't respond, simply banked slightly toward the south. Merlin leaned with him, gazing downward toward an earth that seemed to have nothing to do with either of them. He breathed, filling his lungs, enjoying the sting of the wind on ears and nose and eyes. And noticed something, that reminded him of his first ride across Camelot.

The lights that were twinkling now in the falling dusk – not yet extinguished for the night – were very definitely clustered. And all that dark, fallow land in-between…

 _Kilgarrah… if the dragons and Camelot have come to an understanding and agreement…_ Several letters written back and forth over the years only strengthened that first document signed by his father, and Gwen and Arthur. _Why not move our community to this land? We no longer need the mountains to protect us from Nimueh, we no longer guard the sword – maybe Camelot could find benefit in our presence, and we would have plenty of fertile and level land to work?_

The dragon hummed, his entire body vibrating beneath Merlin's. _Would the females consider their eggs safe in Camelot?_

Merlin refrained from scoffing, though he was well aware of how tough those eggs were – indestructible, and able to wait unhatched for centuries. He had never been a parent before, but he could imagine the feeling of protectiveness might not coincide exactly with reality as others saw it. He settled for, _Are you kidding me? Camelot is all about females._

 _That's changing… But you have a point worth making to the king and queen._

As they began to descend, neither said anything further. Merlin watched fascinated as the scatter of streetlights and home-lights gathered into a nearly-recognizable order in the darkness below. He searched – thought he found – doubted –

 _Is that it?_ He pointed – though rather stupidly, Kilgarrah wouldn't so much see his gesture, as caught his meaning from his mind. _That's it, isn't it._

Kilgarrah was already heading for the arena Merlin had spotted, a small circle of darkness outlined by light. Torches, he guessed, placed around the arena, and cringed, realizing that would have been done for him, since they were late. My mother said I was born late, he'd told his father as an excuse, his first day of training.

It had worked, too. His first day. Merlin soon learned, Balinor was as eager for stories of his mother and childhood, as he was for tales of his father's life and family. But storytelling was not allowed to delay or interrupt his instruction. And Merlin missed both.

As Kilgarrah's wings strained up and back to drop through the air at a controlled pace, Merlin missed the camaraderie of the dragonlord community, the sense of belonging. His father's strong arms and rough beard and voice in his ears, Take care, boy. We'll see you again. Merlin swiped at his eyes with the rough hide of his sleeve – smearing rather than soaking moisture he told himself was due to the wind – and nearly lost his balance as Kilgarrah touched down.

Gripping his pack, he swung his leg over and slid down the dragon's scaly shoulder. Kilgarrah shifted as he moved around to stand facing the oldest creature alive.

"Thank you, old friend," he said aloud, and leaned against the snout Kilgarrah positioned very near him, for the purpose. "I will miss you, too." It was true. Kilgarrah had been hatched, he learned, by one of his own ancestors – a special bond was between them even now, and a greater partnership if Balinor passed before Kilgarrah had lived his last years.

"You honor us all, lordling," Kilgarrah said, sand scattering beneath his breath. "Us all. Call and I will hear, if you have need of us."

"I will," Merlin promised.

He had to swallow twice, hard, as he stepped back, and raised his forearm to protect his face from the updraft, as Kilgarrah leaped aloft and beat his wings to begin his journey home again. So much shorter by air, than it was by land. Briefly Merlin wondered, now that his training was complete, perhaps he could move more freely and more often, between the two places that claimed his loyalty. But… the dragons weren't horses, after all. No, better to visit seldom, and hope that some form of his idea of moving the community within Camelot's borders could come to pass.

As the great dragon disappeared again into the darkness, Merlin shouldered his pack and glanced around the arena – deserted but for the flickering shadows thrown by torchlight – trying to determine how hard it would be to convert the unused space into accommodations that would please the dragons. Not hard at all, if it was a construction they preferred to perform for themselves.

Noticing that the door of the passageway that led toward the palace was the only one open to the arena, he began to walk toward it – stiffly, periodically shaking out one or the other of his legs – and used his magic to extinguish the periphery torches, one by one.

The last was just next to the open doorway – and there was someone there.

A girl, a young lady, wearing a black skirt with a white shirt belted over it. Dark curls gathered in a ribbon, but spilling over one shoulder. And clearly, waiting for him. His steps stuttered; had she seen that magic? Would it bother her? He was back in Camelot, now…

"Welcome home," she said, dark eyes dipping shyly toward his boots, before rising to meet his eyes again determinedly – with an effect of lashes that caused a confusing flutter of warmth in the region of his chest. Well, that answered that question. "Their Majesties expected you earlier…"

"I know, I'm sorry," he interrupted – and kept walking, as she indicated he should, keeping pace at his side. "There was a storm in the mountains, it delayed our departure."

"No one was hurt?" she asked. He shook his head, smiling in appreciation at her concern. "In any case, I said I'd wait for you here – they wanted to see you no matter what hour your arrived, and if it was late, to take a guest chamber rather than continuing into the city."

"You said you'd wait?" he repeated curiously.

The clear light skin of her cheeks darkened with an intriguing blush, that she tried to cover with a shrug. "Someone was going to have to."

"But it didn't have to be you," he guessed. "Freya – thank you."

She stopped so suddenly he almost tripped over his feet trying to do the same, and looked at him with something like astonishment. "You…"

"What?"

"Nothing." She twitched like she meant to keep walking, and changed her mind. "I guess I just… didn't expect you to remember my name."

"Oh." He stood still, wanting to do something or say something charming, to make her smile, but he didn't know what. He settled for an awkward but honest, "Well, I did. Remember you, that is. How has it been, being Gwen's secretary?"

"Perfectly marvelous." And she had dimples when she smiled so widely – he couldn't help smiling back. "Oh – she's waiting!" Freya took his elbow to urge him along, and he was sorry when she released him, to the point of contemplating another delay, so she would touch him again. "How has it been, being…" She glanced at him sideways with her lips quirked, then gestured to the unusual clothing worn by the riders of the dragons. "You?"

"Perfectly marvelous." He couldn't hold back a grin – and saw that she knew he wasn't mocking her. "There's absolutely nothing like it. I'll take you flying someday, you'll see what I mean."

Her dark eyes widened and her mouth dropped slightly open, as she studied his face – then her expression firmed, and she nodded. "All right. Someday. If you remember…"

More teasing, and it filled him with a subtle warm confidence. He liked when the people he liked, liked him too. He liked it when people could be friends in spite of gender considerations, and hoped this was becoming more usual, throughout Camelot, to the point where people wouldn't even think about it, anymore.

"I'll remember," he promised – and by her smile, knew she recalled that he'd remembered her name.

They reached the palace complex, and there were more people about, servants fulfilling duties they hadn't – or couldn't – in daytime hours, a few guards as they climbed to the royal quarters. He didn't actually need her to guide him; he'd been a regular visitor before he'd left for the mountains. But he didn't protest; he quite liked her company, and she seemed comfortable with him. He appreciated that all the more, knowing it would not be true for just anyone.

"Just a moment, let me see if they're awake," Freya said to him, leaving him in the corridor as she slipped into the set of chambers his two friends had shared since their wedding. He remembered that he meant to ask Gwen, if the number of marriages had increased over the past few years, and waited.

A guard stood at the end of the hall – but more attendant than protection. Guttering torchlight, tranquil shadow… He breathed as deeply as he had on Kilgarrah's back, and smiled.

Moments passed, and Freya leaned out the door again. "King Arthur is next door – Her Majesty said you could go on in, and she'd join you in a moment."

 _Next door?_ puzzled him, why weren't they sharing? But he remembered to say, "Thank you – and for staying to wait, I appreciate that."

"You're very welcome," she said. "I suppose I'll – we'll – be seeing more of you, now you're back?"

He grinned. "Definitely."

Her dimples showed again, and she ducked back into the receiving chamber of the royal quarters. Merlin went to the next door down, seeing a light flickering underneath it. Slipping his pack off his shoulder, he lifted the latch and entered slowly, quietly, carefully, setting the pack down before looking around.

It was a smaller room, furnished as a sleeping chamber, though the bed in the alcove was small. Arthur sat at the foot of it with his back to the door dressed in trousers and shirt only, one leg bent in relaxation on the mattress, one bare foot dropped to the rug on the floor beside the bed. The corner of an open book was visible in his hand – and he was reading aloud.

"…And the brave young lord laid hold of the hilt of the sword bound in stone, that had been presented him by the lady in the lake, and with a single exertion of great strength –"

Merlin nearly snickered aloud. _Arrogant? Not Arthur!_

He could see most of the drawing on the page – completely inaccurate, if the story was what he assumed it to be – and acted without thinking, calling upon the magic he felt in his soul, nearly as long as he'd known that tale.

The hand-sized image of a warrior clad in red tunic and silver armor drifted up from the page to shimmer in midair, arms-length from Arthur's face. He stiffened, and Merlin caused the image – both hands wrapped around the hilt of Excalibur, still buried in an ugly chunk of boulder – to flail wildly and ineffectually, stone stuck to sword in great revolutions around its head.

A childish laugh. "Daddy, magic!"

As Arthur turned, Merlin could see the bed better – a tiny person, tight dark curls and shining blue eyes, eager chubby hand reaching for the illusion.

Merlin thought his expression of shock might mirror Arthur's – and the image burst, appearing back on the page of the book Arthur set down. Rising, the king crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Merlin's shoulders before wrapping his arms explosively around him.

"You're back!" Arthur said, tempering delighted enthusiasm sarcastically. "You're late."

"You're a father?" Merlin said incredulously, but it had to be so. The room was fit for a royal child – and Arthur clearly reading a bedtime story.

"This is our son, Elyan," Arthur said – his eyes sparkling and his half-smile ineffectively suppressed. He stepped back to the bed as the little boy snatched up the ragged-edged parchment tied with twine, and stood on the mattress. Arthur picked up his son and settling him against his chest in the crook of one arm in a practiced motion, as if he were accustomed to performing it every day.

Merlin's heart gave a happy-painful throb in his chest – _Arthur is going to be the best father in the history of Camelot_ – and his throat was too tight to speak as he joined them.

"Elyan, this is daddy's friend Merlin," Arthur said to the child. "We've told you of him, remember?"

Merlin smiled, and found his voice. "It is my privilege to meet you, your highness." Giving a slight bow, and offering his hand.

Elyan ducked his head shyly under his father's chin, but kept his eyes on Merlin. And extended his collection of pages – Merlin wasn't sure whether it was a keep-away gesture, or an offering of friendship.

He said to the boy, "What's this?"

No answer, but the quirk of his father's smile showed on the little face, and the small slender book remained extended. Merlin took it and flipped a few pages to see that it was a retelling of their own quest, five years ago.

"It's his favorite," Arthur said, sounding proud and wry at once. "I blame Gwaine for that, though of course he denies making any profit from the publication."

"Of course he does." If Merlin didn't stop grinning, his eyes were going to spill tears right down his face.

"He's mad at you, by the way," Arthur continued casually – as if Merlin had never been gone, and something tense eased, in the vicinity of his heart. "He waited in the arena all afternoon. Wanted to show you his citizenship papers – oh, but don't tell him I said that," he drawled, "it was supposed to be a surprise." Elyan leaned forward to peer inquisitively at his father's face, at the tone.

"I'll do my best to act shocked," Merlin promised. "What about Percival – I would have expected him to earn citizenship before Gwaine."

"He did." Arthur tipped his head in a way that Merlin had missed. "But I don't think he came, or Scandyr. Percival doesn't care for the idea of dragons, much. Probably that first impression."

"Mm. Well, I have plenty of stories that can change his mind. Hopefully."

"Dwagons?" Elyan said, blue eyes wide with excitement.

"Dragons," Merlin grinned back.

"Hence the get-up, I assume?" Arthur said, waving a free hand to indicate his attire. "Rather more difficult than learning to ride a horse?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, remembering those several days also. " _Yes_. And yes, they all laughed at me as well."

Arthur tossed his head back to let out a single peal of laughter. There was a rustle at the door, and Merlin was still turning when he was enveloped in a silken, perfumed hug.

"Oh, Merlin!" Gwen said, softly joyous.

He hugged her briefly, distracted by the bulge of her body that came between them. "Gwen! Another one!"

"Yes!" she laughed, whisking tears from cheeks bunched with her smile, then glanced down at herself, resting a hand fondly on her belly. "Hoping for a girl this time…" Merlin couldn't help his reaction, and she probably couldn't help herself understanding it. "No, it's not like that. Elyan is our heir – we only hope for a balanced family, you see."

He leaned forward for another hug. "You look great – it's so wonderful to see you, to be back."

As he released her, Elyan evidently decided it was his turn, and tried to lunge out of his father's arms. Arthur kept and balanced the lower half, as Gwen caught the embrace, but pressed her son gently back; Merlin could see that it would be impossible for her to hold her older child on top of her unborn one.

"Oh, sweetie, Mama can't hold you right now." Glancing at Arthur as her little son kept one arm curled around her neck to play with her long, loose black curls, she said to Merlin, "I told myself I was going to wait to ask you this, but… Are you back for a visit, or–"

"No, for good," he said.

The plan of bringing the dragons and their community into Camelot remained in the back of his mind, but the weariness of his flight finally seemed to be catching up with him as he relaxed into the comfortable and familiar. And tomorrow it would be back to the clinic that Gwaine and Percival had managed in his absence. For now, he couldn't be happier than standing here with Arthur and Gwen and the little prince.

"I'm home."

 **A/N: I'm sorry this is also a bit late (though it's extra-long, so there you are). My cousin passed away unexpectedly last weekend, so I haven't been in the mood to create happy endings, much… Although, all the best endings aren't really endings, and I do believe his spirit is still alive, and I will see him again someday…**

 **Just to let you know, because I'm going to be working with my agent, and because my regular job starts up again in a few weeks, I may not be able to keep to a chapter a week. But the next story I'll be posting (when/if), is a sequel to** _ **Refined by Fire**_ **. So far untitled, but it'll deal with the "Aithusa" episode material, as well as some Tennyson-based "Lady of Shalott" inspired stuff. So if you have a good idea for a title, send it my way?...**


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